Lost Love Found
by KateWare
Summary: / A Bellarke FanFiction - Post 2x16 / The day that Clarke Griffin leaves is the day that Bellamy Blake loses a part of himself that he never knew existed. Without her, he is nothing. Without her, he lets himself fall into oblivion. Weeks after her decision not to return, Bellamy is forced to go find Clarke. (cover image not mine)
1. Oblivion

"Bellamy."

A very distant, very loud, and very obnoxious voice snapped. He didn't even bother looking up from his glass of whiskey. All he wanted was to be left alone, to be left in isolation. A black void had taken the place of his heart and he no longer had the energy for anything or anyone.

And he definitely didn't need to be thinking about Clarke right now.

All the alcohol in the world couldn't rid her from his memory, no matter how hard he tried. Most nights he would just pass out in Camp Jaha's bar and other times he would wake up and find himself in some random girl's tent.

"Bellamy Blake, so help me God, if you don't get your ass out of here, I'll haul it out for you." Raven barked, taking his metal cup and tossing it to the other side of the bar.

Bellamy only grunted in protest, in part because he was just that drunk and, secondly, he just didn't care. He ran a calloused hand through his already tousled, thick, black hair. It was at times like these, times when he was in between soberness and being wasted, that he wondered what Clarke was doing – where she was.

Raven growled in frustration and slammed her fist down on the bar top.

"Your sister has been worried about you, you know. You haven't spoken to any of us in days, haven't slept in days," Raven started, listing off his recent faults while boring her eyes into his glazed ones. "Wick said he asked for your help with the radio tower and you blew him off."

Bellamy grunted again, unable to form coherent words. Suddenly, a thought crossed his mind, a pleasant thought that consisted of two girls in his bed – blonde girls preferably. He rose to his feet and managed to stand when he was immediately shoved back onto the stool. Bellamy glared at Raven.

"I was just leaving."

"And I was just talking." she shot back.

Bellamy huffed and reached for the nearest canister of vodka, sitting patiently for him on the steel bar top. That would definitely knock him out. He grinned. Perhaps if he blacked out, for once he wouldn't have nightmares.

Raven Reyes slapped his hand away.

"It's Clarke, isn't it?" she said, posed as a statement, not a question.

Bellamy's fingers curled inward and he shut his eyes. His already slouched posture, not for the first time, reflected his own defeat. He saw her face, wet with tears that he could not catch, marred with cuts he could not mend, dirty with soot he could not clean, played itself like an old movie strip across his closed eyelids.

What was one half without the other? What was a soldier without a gun? What was a king without his queen?

"She's gone…" he whispered to the air.

Raven snorted and dragged his stool forward with her good leg. She placed both hands on his shoulders, forcing him to look at her. Bellamy did so with reluctance and with broken eyes.

He had done all that Clarke wanted him to do – he had taken care of their people. Jasper, Monty, Harper, Miller, all of them, he had made sure that all of them were okay and that all of them were settled.

He watched over all of them, all but himself.

Bellamy Blake, his own punisher, his own executioner, was inflicting emotional torment unto himself. He told himself that he deserved worse than this. After all of the people he killed or that had died by his will – for that, he deserved worse than death.

"May we meet again…" he breathed, thinking of their parting words.

"You listen to me, Blake," Raven ordered and tilted his head back. "You are going to fix this, but more importantly you're going to fix yourself. Clarke _needs _you and you need her."

Their faces, inches apart, resembled a commanding officer scorning his charge. Raven sniffed and crinkled her nose. "You smelt better when you were sane."

"But, she doesn't want my help –"

"That's bullshit and you know it."

"No matter how wasted I seem to get, you're still the same, cranky wrench monkey." Bellamy slurred.

Raven slapped him. The sound resounded throughout the entire room.

Stunned, Bellamy held a hand up to his face, his cheek quickly turning red from the impact. "What the hell?"

Raven ignored him. "Shut up or else the only_ wrench_ you're getting is a wrench to the forehead." she barked. "Look, Clarke is hurting just as badly as you are – if not more. And right now she's out there and you're in here. You told her that she's not alone. Well then, go prove to her that she isn't. Who knows what she'll do if she doesn't think anyone cares about her, that she's beyond saving."

"But, we deserve this –"

"For fuck's sake, you're not martyrs! Stop feeling sorry for yourself, get your brooding head out of your ass and go find Clarke." Raven yelled and roughly hauled him to his feet.

Bellamy stumbled into her and she nearly fell backwards under his weight. She made a throaty sound and shoved him upright. For such a skinny girl with a limp, Raven was stronger than almost anyone. But, no matter how straight he thought he stood, no feat of strength could hold Bellamy together.

"Wick!" shouted Raven. "A little help here?"

"Oh yeah," he said, appearing from around the corner and jogging towards them. "Sorry, I was just calibrating the fermentation barrels. The hydrophobic parts weren't lining the interface with carbon dioxide gas –"

"Wick." Raven snapped impatiently.

"Sorry, sorry." Wick apologized as he came around to Bellamy's other side and placed an arm under his shoulder.

Bellamy attempted to tell him that his girlfriend was a real keeper, but his tongue went limp in his mouth. Wick stared at him with a strange expression on his face. "Dude, when was the last time you took a shower?"

"I –"

"Don't, it's rhetorical."

Bellamy grumbled under his breath as they led him away from the one thing that could quell his raging emotions. He would have been perfectly happy drinking himself into oblivion every night. He would have been perfectly happy being labeled a drunk instead of a hero. He didn't deserve that title –_ hero_. Heroes were honest, selfless, compassionate, everything that Bellamy wasn't. And he was tired of being treated like one.

Everywhere he went, everyone he met, he couldn't escape their praise, their admiration. The whispering and hushed conversations were the worst.

_Is that Bellamy Blake, the one who helped Abby's daughter rescue the kids from Mount Weather?_

_Yeah, I heard that he was the one who pulled the lever._

_Really? Someone told me that he stabbed their President and that the mutilated body washed up in the lake._

The rumors, the gossip, the festering lies and glorified stories, they all circulated amongst the people of Camp Jaha like a contagious disease. As the weeks progressed, the rumors didn't dissipate – they escalated. And Bellamy resented it, all of it. He wanted nothing more than to return to the days of the dropship that, for so long, had been considered home.

"Which one is his?" Wick asked and the question brought Bellamy back to reality.

They had stopped just outside a row of pop-up tents concealed under the massive shadow of the Ark. It was calmer here. Less people wanted to sleep outside, preferring the salvageable rooms inside. Bellamy hated the confined feeling of that metal prison. He had a hard time understanding why anyone would want to return to it.

Raven pointed to the right and both her and Wick walked Bellamy into his tent, more or less throwing him onto his bed.

"I'll arrange a pack for you tonight." Raven exclaimed. "Sleep off the alcohol, pray that you don't get hungover. You're leaving in the morning."

And just as quickly as she entered, she left. Wick followed her out, casting a sympathetic look in his direction. Bellamy fell backwards against the mattress and slipped into a dreamless sleep.


	2. In the Shadow

Clarke Griffin wiped the back of her hand across her sweaty brow, leaving behind a dark stain of moist earth. It was early in the morning, so early in fact that the sunlight radiating through the trees gave off only minimal warmth. It was not yet humid. And Clarke preferred the biting chill to the sticky hotness of the forest. It made her work easier.

She bent over once more and finished shoveling dirt. The makeshift shovel she was using was inadequate, but it was all she had. Clarke tossed it to the side and fell to her knees in front of the large mound. She reached over, grabbing a handful of radiation soaked flowers that she had picked earlier that morning, the kind of flower that glowed blue in the night. Using the fauna as a marker, Clarke leaned back and admired her work with a deep sadness.

"Your fight is over." she whispered solemnly, hanging her head in defeat.

Grave digging – this was Clarke's purpose in life now.

Dragging the bodies out from Mount Weather, the bloated, the maimed, the festering bodies, was a laborious chore. She was burying them in the shadow of the mountain, just outside the huge metal door. Clarke contemplated digging the graves further out, but Mount Weather was home to these people and she thought that they would like to be buried close to home.

Her days consisted of hefting lifeless corpses outside before the sun even rose, excavating pounds of dirt before the bodies exploded in the heat and working through the hours before she fell asleep from exhaustion. The only words she ever spoke were to the deceased men and women. And they were the same words each time.

_Your fight is over._

Clarke felt responsible for these people. She was just like Lexa, willing to sacrifice an entire people to save her own, and the notion brought bile up her throat. She replayed that moment over and over in her mind, composed hundreds of solutions in a matter of minutes when she should have thought of them at that moment – before she pulled that lever. Their blood was on_ her_ hands. _She _was the harbinger of death.

It was her, _all her_, not her mom, not Kane, not Monty nor Bellamy.

_ Bellamy. _

_Bellamy helped her pull the lever. Bellamy was there for her the entire time. _

No. Bellamy was gone. He was no longer a part of her life. She had managed for so long without him. She reminded herself that she was capable of making decisions without him. This was _her_ burden, not his. She bore this grief so he didn't have to.

She slammed her fist into the soft earth, tears pooling in her eyes. Clarke busied herself with grave digging so she didn't have to think about the past, didn't have to think about the future. She convinced herself that Bellamy couldn't hold a place in her heart because she didn't deserve that kind of love – just like she didn't deserve love from Raven, Octavia, Jasper, Kane, her mom, any of them.

Clarke Griffin was beyond loving. She told herself that the only emotions love invoked were grief and regret. Love was something for mothers to entice children with, men to bed women with and leaders to manipulate with. After all that it had been through, Clarke's heart was nothing more than a burned lump of muscle.

Clarke rose to her feet, gathering the shovel and flowers in her arms. She had finished burying all the adults – now came the children, the truly innocent. As she walked up the path, covered in dirt and corpse fluids, tears ran down her cheeks. However, like most days and nights, Clarke didn't realize it and continued with her self-imposed penance alone and in complete desolation.

. . .

"Get up." Raven said, tossing a pack full of rations and supplies onto Bellamy's sleeping form.

Startled, he jerked awake and instinctively reached for his pistol hidden beneath his pillows. The quick movements induced a headache and Bellamy quickly rolled over onto his side after making sure whoever tossed the pack wasn't a total threat.

Although, Raven was the closest thing to any threat he could've imagined.

"What do you want?" he moaned and ran a hand down his weary face.

"Do you not remember our conversation last night?" she asked in annoyance, placing a closed fist on her hip.

"I remember being woken up from a very pleasant dream about a girl who misplaced all her clothes…"

"You need to go find Clarke," Raven interrupted, her voice taking on a steely edge. "Now."

Bellamy looked up at Raven, her face hardened into something unrecognizable. The uselessness of her right leg did little to quell her temper or spirit. In fact, it strengthened her resolve. He admired her for it. Perhaps if their roles had been switched, she would've been handling this situation better than himself.

He rose from his bed and slowly walked over to the piped washbasin along the supporting pillar of the tent. Bellamy stripped off his shirt, tossed it onto the floor, and began to run water over his face and hair in an attempt to wash off an alcohol induced sleep. He glanced in the mirror briefly, but couldn't stand to look at himself for more than a few seconds.

Placing both hands on either side of the plastic sink, he gripped the basin until the veins in his arms bulged. He no longer could depend on morals and emotions to keep him together, to keep him upright. He needed physical things to sustain him – mortal things, like whiskey and women.

"You're going to leave, Bellamy, and you're going to leave right now before everyone in this damn camp wakes up." Raven said, her voice carrying somewhat of a lighter tone, an understanding tone.

Bellamy's eyes met hers from across the room, only his were full of anguish. Water dripped from his dark curls onto his face and his bare chest rose and fell in increased succession. "Clarke doesn't need rescuing. She doesn't need our help anymore."

_She doesn't need him anymore._

The thought was enough to induce a strong yearning for his favorite whisky.

"You're right she doesn't." Raven replied, squaring her shoulders.

Bellamy gazed at her confusion and was about to open his mouth again when Raven stopped him.

"But, _we _need her."

Bellamy's mouth snapped closed.

"So get dressed," she added quickly. "Because you're leaving _now_."

. . .

Bellamy was speaking to Raven and Wick in hushed tones when, suddenly, Abby Griffin came flying towards the main gate. Her hair was askew and her dark blue scrubs crinkled from a lack of sleep. She was out of breath by the time she reached them.

"You're finally going after her?" she asked, the question directed at Bellamy.

He nodded.

"Then please," she begged, tears welling in her eyes. "Bring her home safely."

Bellamy did an uncharacteristic thing then; he took her small, artist like hands into his own and stared her directly in the eyes as he said, "I swear."

Abby made a light noise in the back of her throat and hugged him. It was an awkward hug and Bellamy wasn't sure what to do with his hands.

"She trusts you more than anyone." Abby whispered, so low that the others couldn't hear. "She'll listen to you."

Bellamy pulled away first, stunned by her statement. Then, Clarke's mom looked over at Raven and Wick, nodded, tucked a loosed strand of auburn colored hair behind her ear, and turned on her heel, heading back the way she came.

Only Bellamy saw her wipe her tears as she walked away.

"Guess that's goodbye." Wick stated and Bellamy left without another word.


	3. Solidarity

Clarke carried a young child from Mount Weather's dining hall all the way to the cemetery outside. He was boy – a boy covered in boils, a boy covered in peeling skin, a hairless boy whom Clarke assumed used to be quite pretty. When she'd found him, his hands had been clasped in prayer and his eyes were shut tightly as if to ward off the imminent radiation. His corpse was not heavy, but his innocence, his clear goodness and the knowledge of its corruption, weighed more in Clarke's arms than any dead body ever could.

Outside, dusk had approached. The cool air on her pasty skin was a welcome reprieve after a long day's work of digging. However, the impending night also provided cover for scavenging animals; animals that would not hesitate to drag unburied corpses into the forest. She would have to work quickly and finish burying the rest of the children tomorrow.

The grave had already been dug, the flowers already prepared. Clarke gently laid the boy on the soft grass beside the hole. She stroked his head thoughtfully, imagining what his expression would be, if he were still alive, upon seeing the world for the first time. He would've been _so happy_, running through the woods, sword fighting with sticks – playing with the other kids.

And Clarke was the one who deprived him of that chance. She denied his right to life, to happiness…to love.

Would he have grown up to be a handsome man? Would have grown up and fallen in love? What of his children – children that he was intended to have but were never born because this boy's life was cut short?

Tears fell from Clarke's eyes onto his clothes. She took his small, frail hand and cradled it in her own. In that moment, Clarke thought of Charlotte, a little girl that had killed her best friend out of fear. "I am sorry." she whispered.

She ran the pad of her thumb over an unblemished piece of his hand and, in doing so, the boy's fingers unfurled. Something cold and metallic dropped into the palm of her hand. Clarke pulled back and studied the object.

It was a dog tag with the last name of _Lovejoy_ imprinted in the center of the necklace.

Clarke choked on a sob. This boy not only lost his life, he lost his father too. He was fatherless, just like her. She reached down, gently lifted his head and put the dog tag around his neck. The bent piece of metal came to rest right above the boy's heart.

"Please," she begged him, a lump forming in her throat. "Please forgive me…"

"You're already forgiven."

Clarke jumped to her feet and spun around, prepared to face whoever the deep voice belonged to. Unconsciously, she drew both daggers out of her combat boots and rocked backwards, balancing on the balls of her feet. However, when the figure stepped out of the shadows, Clarke nearly collapsed in shock, relief, anger, resentment.

_ Bellamy Blake._

No. No, no, no – No. This couldn't be Bellamy. She told him to forget about her, implied that she didn't want to be found, that she needed space. He was nothing more than a hallucination probably induced by a lack of sleep, lack of food, lack of water. Clarke couldn't remember the last time she'd eaten. No. He was merely a figment of her imagination created to torment and punish her for the terrible atrocities she had committed.

_But, he looked so real. _

No, it couldn't possibly be him. Clarke didn't tell him where she was going. How would he have known where to find her?

Clarke began to step backwards, slowly, carefully. "Stay away from me." she growled.

"Clarke," he began gently. "Clarke it's alright."

Hearing her name come from his lips shocked her to the very core. The way he said it, so softly, so tenderly, it was like a caress upon her skin. But because of this, Clarke knew that it couldn't possibly be him – Bellamy was not tender nor was he soft.

"I have done_ everything_ to put these people to rest. Everything!" Clarke yelled hysterically. Violent, chest-racking sobs took ahold of her weakened body. "What more do you want from me?"

Bellamy tilted his head, his eyes full of anguish. They were pained, but they were pained for _her_. "Don't do this to yourself, Clarke…"

"No!" she screamed, her body shaking uncontrollably. Once more, she glanced down at the small corpse beside her feet. She fell then rose again in quick succession, clutching her head. "No! I deserve this punishment – this is what I'm supposed to do, _for them_."

She ran a quavering hand through her matted and tangled hair. She shut her eyes and choked on air, being suffocated because she couldn't get enough of it into her lungs.

Clarke was hysterical.

"I deserve to die for this…" she gasped.

"No –"

"_I don't deserve you!_"

It was then that Clarke buckled to the ground. Bellamy rushed to her side, catching her just before her head hit the ground. She fell against him and was immediately thankful for his solidarity, his familiar presence. But how could a figment of her imagination be so tangible? Was this really him?

She shook in his arms and ugly sobs engulfed her body. "I did this. _Me_. I killed them."

"Shh…" he soothed stroking her matted hair. "_We_ did this Clarke. You don't carry this burden alone."

Clarke leaned into him, her head resting on his shoulder. It didn't seem right or fair that he'd comfort her. He didn't know how easy it was for her to become someone else, someone ruthless. Her heart had blackened. Lexa had tainted her heart and soul with the idea that one life was worth nothing when in reality, one life meant everything.

Clarke was no longer the same girl who inspired Bellamy all those months ago. She was a murder, a killer, a ruthless leader with no morality.

"I'm a monster. I'm just like her. I'm just like Lexa."

"What?" Disbelief thickened his tone. "You are nothing like her."

Clarke dragged in air like she was drowning. Inadvertently, she balled Bellamy's shirt in her fist. "I destroyed an entire civilization, I let them bomb TonDC, I let Lexa _lie _and _manipulate_ me…" Clarke said this last part slowly, venomously.

Bellamy rocked backwards and pulled Clarke closer to his chest. His hands traveled from her hair to her back, rubbing circles across the thin fabric of her shirt. "There's nothing wrong with protecting those you love, Clarke." he whispered. "We pulled that lever together. And you know what?"

Clarke dragged her gaze upward and found Bellamy staring down at her with a softness that, previously, she thought him incapable of.

"I killed a kid's father, a kid that is now an orphan and I have no explanation for him only that I did it out of survival. But I never got that chance because he's _dead_ and he died not knowing what happened to his dad."

"Bellamy –"

"We do what we have to do to survive," he interrupted. "You can't blame yourself for wanting to survive."

Clarke wiped her cheeks on Bellamy's shirt as her shoulders shook and her vision blurred. "This was different."

"How was it?" he said, and gently grasped her face in his hands, forcing her to look at him through tear-stained lashes. "Do you remember when I had to kill Dax? I couldn't let him hurt you, Clarke. The thought of losing you… I wasn't going to let that happen."

Bellamy's fingers, calloused yet soft, chased her tears as he dipped his head, catching her gaze when she tried to look away. "And I hated what I've done. I have a roster that is dripping in blood, but you know? You don't become okay with it, _you learn to understand it_."

She was silent for a moment.

"It's going to take a long time to understand this." Clarke replied, her voice soft as she gestured to all the graves she'd dug.

"And that's okay because we'll come to understand it _together_, within time." Bellamy murmured and she felt his breath against her cheek.

Clarke threw her arms around Bellamy's neck and he rocked back slightly at the force of the gesture. She buried her head in his neck, relishing in his scent and familiar warmth, warmth that she had only ever experienced when he returned to Camp Jaha. Bellamy, in turn, wrapped his arms around Clarke's back and lower waist, leaning his head into her hair.

And they stayed like that for several moments, taking comfort in one another's presence, one another's solidarity. And Clarke was certain of only one thing – her trust in Bellamy was unwavering. This planet was full danger and hate and pain, but as long as Clarke had Bellamy, she had hope.


	4. Exhaustion

Bellamy helped Clarke bury Lovejoy.

They did not speak to one another, preferring to work in companionable silence. And when it came to time to place the child's body in the earth, Clarke noticed Bellamy's hands begin to shake. She noticed the dip of his head, the clenching of his fingers and the tightening of his jaw.

Clarke reached over and placed a bruised hand over his fisted one. He slowly met her gaze, his eyes filled with sorrow and something far more powerful than grief. Tears did not fall down his cheeks, but his face contorted into an expression of anger.

"What is it?" Clarke asked.

"This is the kid whose father I killed." Bellamy's voice was icy, so cold and distant that she almost shrank back from the intensity of it.

Clarke moved closer to him, despite the obvious warning reflected in his eyes, and draped an arm around his shoulder. His entire body went rigid, almost like a deer staring down the barrel of a shotgun.

"Do you remember what you told me?" Clarke inquired.

Bellamy remained silent.

"We do what we have to do to survive." she breathed and pulled her arm back, slowly, until her hand rested on his shoulder. Clarke watched as he closed his eyes in attempt to calm himself, to think logically.

In this world, allowing the heart control of the mind meant certain death. Only the _mind_ should control the _heart_.

Clarke had to learn that the hard way.

"They were just kids…" Bellamy murmured.

"They were kids who wouldn't be able to live outside Mount Weather," Clarke replied. "They would be just going from one prison to another. That's no life to live."

Silence. And then, "I hope your right."

. . .

"Is this where you've been the entire time?" Bellamy asked as they walked down the darkened corridor. Without any power, without any life, the bunker seemed eerily quiet and as equally depressing.

"Yes."

The only light source came from an almost drained flashlight that Clarke was steadily carrying in her hand. Although, by now, she knew the mountain so well that she could probably navigate without it. She was leading Bellamy to one of the dorm rooms, the one that she slept in at night. Clarke had found the room untouched and it was obvious that it had been used for a guest room at one point because there were no personal belongings within the space. She couldn't stomach the idea of sleeping in a deceased person's bed and the dormitory where the 100 had stayed was too big, reminding Clarke of her imprisonment.

"Do you have food?" Bellamy questioned as they both stopped outside the metal door.

"There's plenty in the kitchen. Most of it doesn't expire until next year." she replied absently and pushed into the room. Thankfully, none of the doors had been locked when the Mountain Men barricaded themselves on Level 5.

Walking into the large antechamber, Clarke scurried around lighting candles and turning on whatever lamps still had batteries in them. Bellamy stood by the door, shrugging his backpack and watching her curiously.

"I can cook whatever food you brought if you're hungry. I found a lighter in one of the drawers and water is still being piped into the kitchens." Clarke exclaimed as she picked up a sketchbook off the coffee table and placed it upside down on a dresser.

"I think I lost my appetite for the next year." he said in all seriousness.

Clarke straightened and glanced over at Bellamy who still stood within the doorway. Inside, the room was still impossibly dark with shadows, created by the candles, playing across the cement walls. Bellamy's face looked gaunt and angular in the darkness. Only his outline, tall form and broad shoulders, could be clearly made out. His features were undiscernible.

"Yeah, mine too." Clarke replied softly. She looked away from him, hugging herself nervously she bit her lip and said, "Well if you want to go to bed now, it's late and I have to finish early tomorrow morning…"

"I can sleep in here."

Clarke eyes skimmed the room. There wasn't a couch or large enough pillowed chair for him to sleep on, only the cold, stone floor. She didn't want to suggest another room because all of them had been slept in by Mount Weather's inhabitants. And she had the feeling that Bellamy didn't want to lie underneath the same covers that, only weeks ago, touched a now dead person's body – a person that Clarke and him had killed.

"You don't have to," Clarke said, hoping her voice didn't sound too hurried. Bellamy lifted his head and his gaze met hers. "There's a bed in the other room."

"Two beds?"

"One."

Bellamy shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Clarke berated herself for being so insecure, so hesitant. It was only _Bellamy _for God's sake, Bellamy who she was not the least bit attracted to or, in turn, was the least bit attracted to _her_. They were partners, not lovers. He only cared about her because she was his co-leader, not because he actually _liked _her.

After tossing his pack next to the coffee table, he brushed wordlessly past her and into the bedroom. Clarke let out a breath she wasn't aware she was holding. Running a shaking hand through her mangled hair, she made her way over to the dresser. She quickly donned a pair of loose fitting shorts and an oversized t-shirt. Tonight, she didn't even bother with her hair and simply let it hang in ropes down her back.

Sighing, she padded into the single bedroom and nearly stopped in her tracks, immobile.

Bellamy was sitting on the bed, with his back to her, and in one fluid motion, drew off his shirt. The muscles in his back, so clearly defined, moved with an orchestrated beauty. Clarke had never seen him bare-chested before, she had never seen what all the other teenage girls gossiped about. She mostly ignored the girls who talked about having sex with _Bellamy Blake_.

He was about to discard his pants when Clarke hastily cleared her throat.

He jumped up and turned towards her, his face somewhat masked by the darkness. The expression on Clarke's own face must have been comical because his lips curled into a sardonic smile.

"See something you like, Princess?" he teased. Clarke narrowed her eyes and watched as his traveled the length of her body. She childishly crossed her arms over her chest.

"Personally, I was more worried about your cooties." Clarke joked, although her voice was taut and she wasn't in the mood, especially after seeing Bellamy half-naked.

She walked over to the bed, refusing to stare at his sculpted chest or his perfectly mused hair. Clarke would not give him the satisfaction.

And she reminded herself that she _definitely _wasn't attracted to him.

"Where did you get those clothes?" he questioned.

"I found them in the dresser."

"Couldn't find a smaller size?" Bellamy raised an eyebrow. Clarke held back a snarky response.

"Well, maybe _you _should go find shirt since apparently you're in need of one." she said through gritted teeth. Clarke was beginning to regret offering him the bed.

"But then I wouldn't get to see you blush." Bellamy grinned, placing two hands firmly on the bed.

She chose not to respond to that statement. Clarke angrily threw the covers back and slipped inside, immediately turning her back to him. She scooted to the far edge of the bed, hoping to put as much distance between them as possible.

However, when Bellamy wordlessly settled into the bed beside her, there was only a pencil-length distance between them. Clarke grumbled and flipped onto her back. And, much like hers, Bellamy's arms were crossed over his chest. They lay there, staring up at the bare ceiling. Clarke's heart was racing and she became hyper-aware of everything – of his slow, steady breaths, his radiating warmth.

A strained silence descended as she ran her fingers over the edge of the comforter. Then, against her will, she looked at him. Bellamy stared back, a stupid, lopsided grin plastered across his face.

"Looks like you finally got me into bed," he commented. "Usually, it's the other way around."

Clarke rolled her eyes. "I'm honored, truly."

"And if you drool on me in your sleep, I promise not to tell." Bellamy added.

Clarke told him to shove it, that she didn't drool _or_ snore. And she rolled back onto her side and shut her eyes, willing herself to fall asleep, forcing herself to ignore Bellamy's presence. Her body eventually relaxed. Seconds, maybe minutes later, she drifted off next the boy she called her co-leader.

Just before sleep claimed her, she heard Bellamy murmur, "Goodnight, Clarke."


	5. Of Art and Nightmares

Sleep, it seemed, was an impossible fantasy. It eluded Clarke like a playful ghost, enticing her with the idea, but vanishing at the last moment. That night, she had slept for no more than two hours and though her mind yearned for it, a peaceful slumber was far off.

She lay awake, her back still towards Bellamy, contemplating whether or not to raid the medical ward for medication. The thought of a dreamless sleep was so intoxicating that she nearly craved it at an addict's level. The ward wasn't far, only a level away. It would be so easy to slip away and collapse on the cold, sterile floor. After all, Clarke had done it before.

Exhaling steadily, she slowly rolled onto her other side, facing Bellamy who was taking up more than half the bed. He was on his back, one arm across his chest the other resting just above Clarke's head. His features were soft in the darkness, his muscles relaxed and his jaw no longer clenched. As opposed to looking like a battle-hardened solider, Bellamy appeared like the twenty-three year old that Clarke first met all those months ago. Her eyes traveled to his inky black curls and she had the sudden urge to run her fingers through it, to see if it felt as soft as it looked.

Clarke remembered the sketchbook on the dresser, the sketchbook that she had found unused in Dante's office. Before she did something that she would later regret, something that involved running her hands through Bellamy's hair, Clarke quietly slipped out of bed and into the adjoining room. She padded over to the dresser, grabbing the sketchbook and a pair of pencils off the wooden surface. Hauling one of the wooden chairs into the bedroom, she sat down with her feet up on the corner of the bed and began to sketch.

Clarke began to draw Bellamy.

It was something that she had always wanted to do, but never did because that would require Bellamy to sit still in front of an easel without complaints. And Clarke knew all too well that he had little patience for trivial things.

At least now, when he was asleep, his mouth was shut.

Clarke picked up her pencil and began to outline her illustration, drawing a portrait of Bellamy. His upper torso and basic figure were easy to sketch; the curves and dips of his collarbone and throat easy to shade. However, his features, Clarke found, proved more difficult. Bellamy was exotic looking with his tanned, freckled skin and curved nose. She wondered who his mother and father were, what land their ancestors had originated from.

Clarke reverted to drawing his hair, studying him as he slept she noted how tendrils of curls rested against the pillow, his forehead, his ears. The unruliness of it all matched the unruliness of Bellamy's own personality. And, once more, she was reminded of how badly she wanted to know the feeling of it through her fingers.

She was working on his smile, something that he rarely revealed to anyone, when all of a sudden Bellamy began to thrash violently in bed.

Clarke dropped her sketchbook on the floor as Bellamy shouted in his sleep. The covers had been kicked to the edge of the bed and his chest was covered in a thin layer of sweat. He was mumbling unintelligible things in his sleep, his face contorting into something that resembled pain.

"Clarke!" he shouted, his voice full of agony and panic.

"Bellamy," she began, racing to his side of the bed. But when she got there she realized that he called out to her _in his sleep_ – that he was having a terrible nightmare, that he wasn't coherent. She sat down on the mattress and placed a hand over his, but he jerked away quickly.

"Clarke, don't – don't…" his words were raw and his eyes were moving rapidly beneath his lids.

Clarke wanted to reach out, to engulf him in her arms, to tell him she was alright, but his violent words and actions held her in place. His breathing was increasing at rapid rate, his bare chest heaving fiercely. Bellamy shouted again and tears began to run down his cheeks.

"It's okay." Clarke repeated, but it was useless, he was beyond words.

He shook his head and his hands reached for a gun that was not there. He growled deep and throaty. "Don't touch her – Clarke!"

Clarke was scared. She had never seen Bellamy like this, she had never seen him so out of control. Bellamy Blake, calm, reasoned, Bellamy Blake, was having a nightmare that was causing him both physical and emotional pain, triggering his body into a convulsive state. The room suddenly became suffocating, the emotion so thick that one could cut it with a knife.

Against her better judgement, Clarke reached out and wrapped Bellamy in her arms. His body was hot, steaming even. Sweat soaked through her shirt and, as a result, molded her to him. She made soft, diminutive noises in the back of her throat, attempting to calm him. She slid her arms up his back and rested her head against his shoulder.

"Shh, Bell, it's just me," Clarke whispered next to his ear. "It's Clarke."

He tensed, his body going rigid. She felt his muscles clench beneath her skin. Clarke continued to make shushing noises and, slowly, Bellamy began to relax, he was no longer shouting incessantly.

Her hands traveled to the nape of his neck, her fingers playing with the edges of his curls. Clarke was practically sitting in his lap now, running her hands across his skin, unwinding him like a clockmaker unwinds a clock. She reveled in this power that she seemed to have over him, able to calm him with nothing but a touch.

"You're alright," Clarke murmured. "You're alright."

Suddenly, she felt two hands travel up her hips to her torso and wrap around her waist. Bellamy buried his face in her neck and held her against him as if she was the only thing keeping him afloat.

"Clarke?" he whispered, his breath hot against her neck.

"I'm here." she replied with softness in her voice. Bellamy pulled back slightly and gazed at her, his face inches from hers. He placed a calloused hand against her cheek and stared at her in wonder.

"You're alive." he mumbled in disbelief, his voice husky.

"Of course I'm alive. I never left you." Clarke murmured gently.

Bellamy brought his other hand up, cradling her face in his hands, his eyes searching hers. Clarke placed her own hand on his chest, over his rapidly beating heart. She had never been this close to Bellamy before, skin on skin, breath mingling with breath. It was an intoxicating, intimate feeling holding on to one another in bed. Clarke's own heart felt as though it was going to beat out of her chest.

Bellamy's hands began to travel downwards, down the gentle slope of her lower back, his fingers brushing against her exposed skin. Clarke gasped, her fingers digging into his shoulders.

"Bell…" she breathed as she felt his lips kiss her uncovered shoulder.

Bellamy froze. Clarke stilled – cringed.

He lifted his head. Eyes like pools of dark liquor stared at her in confusion. They quickly cleared, though, turning sharp and hard within seconds.

Using his powerful arms, he pushed himself away from Clarke. His eyes never left hers. He dragged a deep breath and she wasn't sure if he ever let it out. Something passed between them, something unspoken and heavy. His eyes narrowed and she had the feeling that he somehow blamed her for this situation.

Like his nightmare was _her_ fault.

Without saying a word, Bellamy disappeared from beside her. He strode out of the room and Clarke heard the metal door from the other room open and slam shut.

She stayed there, staring at the wall, heart pounding, her cheeks flushed – her body way, _way_ too hot. Eventually, she collapsed onto Bellamy's side of the bed and buried her face in pillows encased in his scent. And she fell asleep with the feeling of his touch still lingering upon her skin.


	6. The Repercussions of Love

Clarke blinked open her eyes. And for a blissful, peaceful, utterly restful moment, she believed that she was home. She believed that she was in her own bed, back on the Ark, during a time when her life was normal and her family was whole.

Smiling, Clarke stretched out across the covers and flipped onto her stomach, burying her face in the plush pillows. She was immediately met with a warm, earthy scent – a scent that did not belong to her. It was a comforting smell, full of familiarity and _home_. Clarke buried herself in it, inhaling deeply.

Her eyes shot back open. She dashed up in bed, the covers falling around her hips.

She looked over and found that Bellamy wasn't asleep next to her. He wasn't in the room at all. Clarke began to panic. Throwing the comforter back, she jumped out of bed and ran a quick hand through her tousled hair. Images from last night came flooding back, causing her blood pressure to spike.

Bellamy's nightmare, Bellamy's shouting. Clarke wrapping herself around him in attempt to calm him – to bring him back into reality. She remembered his hands, his hands running down beneath her shirt. She remembered his lips against her shoulder. She remembered causing him to shiver with pleasure with nothing but a simple brush of her hand.

Clarke remembered that she _liked_ the feeling of him touching her, stroking her – that_ she _liked touching_ him_.

She chastised herself. Bellamy wasn't even coherent last night, he wasn't thinking straight. His nightmare had left him in a confused and disjointed state. Him touching her – it meant _nothing_. The proof was in his immediate departure, the accusation in his eyes when he realized who he was with.

She pushed the images away hard and fast. Thinking of Bellamy in that way – it would only bring her pain and deepen her attachment to him. And in this world, too many attachments meant only one thing –heartbreak.

Clarke strode out of the room quickly, barreling her way past the wooden chair and through the doorway. Stumbling out of the room, she rushed to turn on the lamps, to light the candles. In some ways, the darkness frightened Clarke even more than death. It was the abyssal nothingness of it all that scared her, the feeling of being completely alone, isolated.

When she turned around, ready to race into the kitchen, she saw Bellamy leaning up against the counter, staring at her with glazed eyes. Clarke held back a scream and almost tripped over backwards.

"Bellamy? What the hell!" she gasped, sticking an arm out, using the cement wall as a support.

He raised a canister to his mouth and took a long, deep swallow of whatever liquid it contained. Bellamy looked ghostly in the dim light, his eyes haunted. Clarke noticed his hands shaking as he gripped the metal can.

"Morning, Princess." he slurred.

"Bellamy," Clarke repeated, pushing herself off the wall and walking towards him. "What happened last night, where –"

Bellamy grinned, but it was a grin that Clarke did not recognize. It was a smile devoid of all life, full of pain and anguish.

"Nightmares about_ them_, the Mountain Men." Bellamy's voice was raspy, low and soft and so uncharacteristic that it broke her heart. Clarke approached him slowly and only when he wasn't looking. She wanted to tell him that he wasn't alone, that she shared the same terrible dreams, the same fears, but something held her back, a memory recalled from last night.

"And if you must know, I ransacked the kitchens and found bottle after bottle of whisky," he added a little more loudly. "And you want to know the best part about it, Clarke?"

Clarke shook her head, her eyes welling at the acute sadness in his voice. Bellamy was about to pour himself another shot when she reached out and stopped him, her hands wrapping around his. Clarke's eyes never left his as she set the cup back onto the counter. She stood so close to him that she could smell the rank scent of alcohol, feel the heat radiating through his shirt.

"No more, Bell." she whispered.

Bellamy trembled and stepped quickly away from her. "You want to know?" he asked again.

"Bellamy…"

"The best part about getting shit-faced drunk is that I'm able _to forget about you_."

Clarke felt as though she had been physically slapped. She backed away from him, feeling her way along the counter. Her heart burned, it ached. "What?" she breathed.

"You have no idea what you do to me," Bellamy said. "You have no idea about how much I care for you."

"You can't just drink your feelings away, Bellamy." Clarke snapped, her pain quickly turning into anger. She chose to ignore his previous statement, dismissing it as nothing more than drunken nonsense.

"Really?" he asked, stepping towards her and standing over her – _towering_ over her. He crossed his thick arms over his chest. "Because I was able to get so fucking wasted every night that I was able to forget _everything_ – the Mountain Men, the 100, you _abandoning_ us."

"Abandon you!" Clarke spat. "They didn't need me anymore!"

"But _I_ needed you!" Bellamy shouted, his face turning red.

Clarke opened her mouth, but words rushed out of his. "You think that getting drunk doesn't numb pain, well what about running away from your problems?"

"You know why I had to leave." Clarke's voice was dangerously low. "And it wasn't because I wanted to desert any of you. I – I needed time alone."

"You didn't have to go alone." Bellamy replied, quieter this time. "I would've gone with you –"

"Well why didn't you?" she retorted abruptly.

"Because you asked me to stay and because I cared enough about you to respect that decision." he whispered.

Clarke inhaled sharply.

Bellamy reached out and took her face into his hands, his thumb stroking the side of her cheek. Clarke froze. With so many emotions battling for dominance, she was no longer certain which ones to express and which ones to hide. And looking into Bellamy's eyes, whose irises were so full of adoration, it only reminded her that he was in no state to comment on any sort of feeling.

"You're drunk." Clarke stated.

"How observant of you." he murmured, his breath against her ear. His hand slipped down, slowly, over the swell and dip of her side. His arm wrapped around her waist and Bellamy pulled her nearer. Clarke stumbled into him and he caught her easily.

"This isn't you," she murmured. "You're drunk. You don't know what you're doing."

And Clarke gasped as his hand began to travel up her shirt and his lips kissed the underside of her jaw. She inadvertently fisted the fabric of his shirt in her hand. "I know _exactly_ what I'm doing." Bellamy growled, deep and throaty.

He lifted Clarke into his arms as if she weighed nothing and set her roughly down on the countertop. She reached down and placed her hands on his shoulders.

"Bell…"

At that moment, drunk or not, Clarke wanted Bellamy. She wanted him so desperately that it was like a burning ache. All this time, something inside of her was suppressing her desire – her desire for him. Clarke _wanted_ to know the taste of his skin, wanted to _feel_ his pleasure, pleasure that _she_ was able to spark.

Bellamy pulled her legs apart and she wrapped them around his hips, eagerly. His hands traveled up her stomach and around Clarke's back. "You have no idea – the fear I have of losing you…" he whispered, his breath stirring her hair.

"Nothing's going to happen to me. I can take care of myself."

"That's what you said last time and look where we ended up." Bellamy exclaimed and kissed the skin right below her ear. Clarke closed her eyes as her fingers dug into the fabric at his shoulders.

"I'd say we ended up okay." she said, her voice wispy. Clarke's hands traveled down to the waistline of his pants and tugged, hard. He practically fell against her, their bodies shaping together as Bellamy's lips moved to her neck.

No. She wanted him to _kiss _her, really kiss her. Clarke _wanted_ him. Her hands reached up and tangled in his hair, soft as silk and as inky as the night sky. His lips continued to explore her body and Clarke's breathing hitched in her throat at the fire coursing through her veins.

"Bell, I need you to kiss me." Clarke murmured.

"What was that? I couldn't hear you."

Clarke growled and tugged at his hair. "You asshole, you heard me."

Bellamy pulled away, his lips a hair's breath away from her own. He placed a warm, calloused hand against her cheek. "I want you to say it again." he whispered, his voice slurred. Only this time, Clarke suspected it wasn't just from drunkenness, but from something _more_.

"Ineed you to kiss me. _I need you_."

Bellamy pressed against her and his mouth exploded across hers. Fire sizzled up and down her veins as she kissed him back, her body melting against his. He slid his hands up into her hair and exhaled against her skin. He kissed her neck as she pulled his shirt up over his head and ran her hands all over him – shoulders, back, arms, purring in her throat like a cat.

She wanted to memorize him. Clarke wanted to draw him, to capture his masculine beauty with nothing but a pencil. She had never felt this _alive_ or this buzzed – not with Finn, not with Lexa. Bellamy seemed to read her thoughts, know her desires. And he kissed with all fire and passion like every kiss would be his last.

And Bellamy's kisses were deep, scorching her lips as his hands tightened around her waist, pulling her against him. Touching him was like having a fever. She was on fire. Clarke's body burned. The world burned. Against his mouth, she moaned and it sent him into a wild and eager state.

It was only when Clarke began to see a rainbow of colors and when her mind exploded with hot, explicit images of them together, that she tore her lips from Bellamy's. Their ragged breathing mixed and mingled in the short distance between them.

Bellamy pressed his forehead against hers before dropping his hands to the countertop on either side of hips. Even when drunk, he was still able to understand Clarke's thoughts, her unannounced feelings.

Clarke's fingers reached up and lightly brushed across her own, swollen lips. She looked down at herself, her clothes rumpled and legs dangling near Bellamy's sides. For the first time, her mind seemed to register Bellamy's shirtless state, the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

"Oh my God." she murmured to no one in particular.

Clarke Griffin had just made out with Bellamy Blake. And what was more – she actually enjoyed it.

What the hell was she thinking?

Wordlessly, Clarke leapt down from the counter and ducked underneath Bellamy's veined and pulsating arms. Before she even knew where she was going, Clarke was out the door within seconds. And, once on the other side, she slipped down the wall and placed her head in her hands.

Whatever friendship her and Bellamy had before, Clarke had just ruined it.


	7. What Hurts the Most

Eventually, Clarke was able to pull herself together.

The walls that she had so carefully constructed, walls that had been built so high that they were nearly impenetrable, had crumbled. Walls like that, strongholds forged by heartache and betrayal, were not so easily mended. And, somehow, Bellamy had managed to level it with nothing but a kiss. He had kissed her as if he was a pyre in need of a spark, as if he was a lightning rod in need of lightning.

Clarke reached up and brushed her fingers across her swollen lips. She could still taste him. She could still feel the residual heat of his body coursing through her veins.

_His body_ – muscles crafted out of iron, bones fashioned out of granite. Bellamy Blake was no ordinary twenty-three year old. Hardened by years of guard training and weighed down by responsibility, Bellamy was able to withstand such emotional turmoil. Clarke, however, was not so lucky. She was nothing _but a shell_ of her former self.

Clenching her fists until her knuckles turned white, Clarke shut her eyes and willed the images away. Images of her and Bellamy, images of her and Finn, images of her and Lexa, were all shoved back to the dark recesses of her mind. Emotions, especially those involving love, were dangerous things. So dangerous that, in fact, they meant almost certain death.

In the time that it took to draw a steady breath, Clarke had already resolved her problem by rejecting the one thing that made her human – her sentiment.

Clarke Griffin rose to her feet, brushed off her pants, swiped at her face and walked towards the front of the mountain. She still had a job to do.

. . .

Bellamy slammed his fist into the wall with such force, that his knuckles immediately bled and concrete cracked.

He wanted to make himself _feel_ pain. He wanted to make himself feel pain in the same way that he was able to feel Clarke's hands upon his skin. Unfortunately for Bellamy, he was drunk. That meant any true pain he felt would be instantaneously absorbed by the alcohol in his system. Wanting nothing more than to become oblivious to his emotions, he had tossed back shots so fast that he wasn't even sure how many he had taken. But now, he yearned for consciousness and the ability to process his own humanity.

He leaned his forehead against his arm, his breathing ragged and unsteady.

_Stupid_, he thought to himself, _stupid, fucking, jackass_.

Pushing Clarke to quickly, telling her that he needed her, that he would follow her wherever she asked, was probably the dumbest thing Bellamy had ever said to a girl. She wasn't emotionally ready. She was still recovering from Finn's death and mourning the loss of those they killed. Whatever respect she had for him was gone, destroyed, obliterated. And Bellamy had been _so_ careful. He had always kept his distance, kept Clarke at an arm's length. All those moments he had wanted to say more, wanted to comfort her in the ways that she needed to be comforted, he had resisted it all.

But tonight, his drunken, wayward mind had different ideas. He had been angry, yes, but seeing Clarke standing there, wide eyed and concerned for his wellbeing – it melted his heart. With his inhibitions suppressed, he had let his heart control his actions. And, despite everything, Bellamy had kissed her. She tasted sweet and tasted of nighttime.

And the worst part about it was that he wanted to do it again. The rush of her skin and the roughness of her gestures had intoxicated him like no alcohol could. Clarke was unique in the way that she carried herself, in the way that she commanded the room. No other girl fascinated and inspired Bellamy more than her.

Bellamy growled, deep and throaty, and tossed another fist at the wall, weaker this time.

What was he thinking? Clarke Griffin was _definitely _off limits. She wasn't his, she wasn't anybody's. Abby would skin him alive if she found out that Bellamy was interested in her daughter. In her mind, Bellamy was still a killer, a rebellious man who had risked _everything_ for his sister.

Bellamy shoved himself off the wall and wandered into the bedroom in search of some real clothes. Walking over to the other side of the bed, he tripped over a sketchbook, probably Clarke's. He bent down and picked it up off the floor. Lazily flipping through it, Bellamy noticed landscape drawings, drawings of animals and flowers. All of them were really quite good. He had no idea that Clarke was such a good artist. She seemed to capture life's essence and craft it with extraordinary… Bellamy's hands stopped on the last page.

It was a portrait – of _him_.

The drawing, it was of him in the forest outside Camp Jaha leaning against one of the large trees. The picture was drawn from the knees upwards. He was smiling, openly and candidly, playing with a knife in his hand. It was almost like a photograph with Bellamy staring directly ahead as if looking at a photographer.

His fingers lingered on the page, tracing Clarke's finely sketched lines. She had drawn him not rugged or hard looking, but content and carefree – happy.

Is this really how she saw him?

Bellamy shut the sketchbook quickly and tossed it onto the bed. He should've never looked at it. Looking through someone's drawings, it was almost like reading someone's journal. It was something personal and he didn't need to be thinking that Clarke might actually like him in that way.

He reached over the bed, grabbing whatever clothes he could find and donned them. Bellamy resolved that he would search the rest of Mount Weather for what little supplies might still be left. Right now, Clarke needed space and Bellamy was willing to give that to her.

. . .

When Bellamy walked outside through the massive steel doors carrying a backpack and a pack full of newfound supplies, he found Clarke sitting on a log with her back to him. Her head was bent, her shoulders hunched in defeat. It looked as though she had just finished burying the dead. Bellamy approached slowly and when Clarke heard him she quickly rose to her feet.

Her eyes were puffy, her clothes covered in dirt and her hair mangled with a day's worth of digging. Her sketchbook immediately came to mind, as did her lips. He refused to let the thought show and, instead, shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

Meanwhile, Clarke was staring at him absently, her eyes vacant of their usual life.

Bellamy cleared his throat. "Clarke, I –"

"I don't want to hear it." she spat.

He clenched his jaw and shot her a hard look. Clarke's entire demeanor had changed in an instant. Did she really hate him that much? Did she really regret kissing him that much? After all, she was the _one _who asked _him_.

"Have it your way, Princess," he replied through gritted teeth and shoved a pack in her direction. "We're going home."

"Home? We have no home." Clarke exclaimed with bile in her voice, taking the pack and shrugging it over her shoulder.

"Yes, we do. How do you expect to ever have a home when you're so set against having one?" Bellamy challenged.

"A home implies attachments. I don't do attachments."

"Your mom, Monty, Raven, you don't care about any of them?" he asked, coming to stand directly in front of her.

"Of course I do!" Clarke yelled, glaring up at him. "But –"

"Okay then, let's go." he said, brushing past her and striding down the slope. He didn't even bother to look over his shoulder to see if she was following.

"You're insufferable!" she called out after him.

Bellamy glanced over his shoulder, smiling wickedly. "It's what I do best."


	8. A Chance Encounter

The long walk back to camp was tense, awkward. After their conversation outside Mount Weather, Bellamy had not said one word to Clarke. He strode ahead of her wordlessly, occasionally looking over his shoulder to see if she was still following. It was as if he thought she would go away with the wind if the wind blew hard enough.

Clarke almost felt sorry for snapping at him. Though his face didn't show it at the time, she had seen the hurt in his eyes. But, she convinced herself, it was for the best – he couldn't have feelings for her, she would only ruin him.

Staring at the ground as she followed Bellamy's footsteps, Clarke suddenly stumbled into him when he came to an abrupt halt.

"Ow! What the hell –" Clarke snapped, stepping backwards and rubbing her forehead.

"Do you hear that?" he asked, turning his head and looking down at her, his eyes searching the forest behind her. She scowled up at him.

"I think you're hearing things." replied Clarke as she crossed her arms. "I –"

Bellamy raised a finger to his lips, silencing her. She cocked her head and listened. Expecting to hear the sounds of the forest, sounds like the scurrying of animals or the rustling of leaves, Clarke heard nothing but silence. It was odd. The forest was normally alive with the sounds of indigenous wildlife. This silence was eerie, unnatural.

"I don't hear anything." she whispered.

"Exactly," Bellamy agreed. "Someone's following us."

That explained the quietness of the forest. The animals were remaining silent because they sensed predators nearby. Whoever, or whatever, was following them had to be a highly skilled tracker. Bellamy and Clarke had spent months in the wilderness, for them not to hear anything out of the ordinary, was unusual.

They had both stopped moving, both of them listening intently for any sign of a threat. Bellamy was only a few feet in front of her, his hand hovering over the holster of his pistol. Suddenly, his eyes grew very wide as he looked over the top of Clarke's head.

"Get down!" Bellamy shouted, tackling Clarke to the ground as an arrow whizzed past her head.

_Grounders_.

Before Clarke could protest, Bellamy grabbed her by the waist and twisted around so that he landed on the ground first. He grunted, wincing at the impact, dirt smearing across his back and arms. She was on top of him then, her legs splayed on either side of his hips, her breathing ragged as she glanced sideways at him. Their lips were only a hair's breath away. And for a brief moment, Bellamy stared at her openly and with what Clarke could only describe as yearning. But as quickly as his eyes were drawn, they were averted.

"Shit." he cursed, rolling on top of Clarke before disentangling himself and drawing his gun.

_Bang_, _bang_, _bang_, gunshots sounded through the forest, scattering animals large and small.

Clarke scrambled to her knees while trying to suppress the feeling of having had Bellamy's complete weight on top of her, once again reminding herself that now wasn't the time. She crawled over to the discarded backpack and fumbled around inside, searching for her own weapon.

Another arrow was released, this time lodging itself in the tree right next Clarke's head. She cursed – loudly. Grabbing her gun, Clarke spun around and shot into the darkened forest from where the arrow had been shot.

"Where are they coming from?" Clarke shouted over the sounds of gunshots and whizzing arrows. She scrambled for cover behind a nearby tree.

"I don't know, but there's definitely more than one archer out there." Bellamy replied from several feet away. She glanced over at him, tucked behind a tree and reloading his pistol. He spun out briefly, firing more rounds, his face consumed by concentration and a hint of annoyance.

"Grounders?"

Bellamy looked over at her. "Who the fuck else would it be?"

If Clarke had been near him, she would've slapped him for that comment. She gritted her teeth and fired at the figures darting through the foliage. "Now's not the time for your wonderful personality to appear."

"And here I thought you enjoyed my wonderful personality." his words were teasing but his voice was deadpan.

Clarke rolled her eyes. She was in the middle of quickly emptying gun shells when she noticed a Grounder appear from the tree line, bow raised and aimed directly at Bellamy's back. After that, everything happened in slow motion.

"Bellamy!" she screamed. "Behind you!"

But in the time it took for the words to escape her mouth, the arrow had already been released. Clarke started to run towards Bellamy, but it was too late. The arrow lodged itself in his flesh, burrowing deep within his shoulder accompanied by the sickening hiss of torn muscle. He let out an immediate, strangled shout. He dropped his gun and twisted sideways against a tree, writhing in pain.

"No!" Clarke cried, fumbling on hands and knees. She reached him eventually, arrows flying past her head as she crawled on all fours.

Clarke could see the projectile buried deep in his lower shoulder, blood pouring from the wound. She took him in her arms, despite his adamant protests, and examined the injury. The wound itself wasn't life threatening, but the potential for major blood loss was. If it got infected, the muscle could be permanently damaged.

"Dammit," she growled in frustration. "You just had to get yourself shot."

"I'm fine, Clarke," he insisted weakly, attempting to move out her arms. "Just pour a little whisky on it…"

"You're not fine." she barked. Glancing up, Clarke noticed the Grounders moving closer, only this time they were wielding swords instead of bows. They were coming to finish the job and Clarke had no way to defend herself. She had dropped her gun on the mad scramble over.

"Just don't forget to share some of that whisky…" Bellamy went on, oblivious to the situation at hand.

Clarke reached over his bleeding body and took Bellamy's gun from his hand, pointing it at one of the approaching Grounders. The brute froze immediately, as did the surrounding party. There was once a time when she used to be afraid of the Grounders, afraid of their appearance and war paint, but no longer. She understood them now. She understood their primitive ways. With them, the only way to conduct peace was through violence.

"Come closer, I dare you." Clarke snarled with one protective arm around Bellamy and the other extended towards the Grounders.

"That's enough!" commanded a loud, female voice.

The Grounders instantly complied, dropping their weapons to their sides and yielding too whoever had spoken. A horse and rider appeared from within the shadowed forest. And as she approached, the Grounders parted for her, bowing their heads in respect.

Lexa – the Commander.

Dressed in ceremonial garb and sitting atop a massive, snorting beast, the Commander gazed down at Clarke with an indistinguishable expression, her face masked by black war paint. She came to a halt a few feet away from Clarke with Indra, her second in command, following closely behind on foot. The woman, always bitter and callous, stared at Bellamy and Clarke with burning hatred.

"Hello again, Clarke." Lexa said in her light, musical voice.

The softness in Lexa's voice caught her off guard and, for a moment, Clarke was taken aback. She remembered the day that they kissed, she remembered it vividly. She also remembered the suddenness of it all. Lexa had been so sure of herself then, so certain that Clarke would've responded in full force. But she underestimated the coldness of Clarke's heart.

Lexa had manipulated and abused Clarke's trust – she cared nothing for her, only for her own power.

"What do you want?" Clarke growled, her eyes darting from Grounder to Grounder like a caged animal. "Why did you attack us? Why –"

"Clarke –"

"Out of spite? Out of some barbaric thrill?"

"Calm down, you're being unreasonable." Lexa said with impatience in her voice. She inadvertently tugged on her horse's reins and the massive animal tossed its head in annoyance.

"Unreasonable!" Clarke shouted. "You shot Bellamy!"

Bellamy, who had been watching the whole exchange through glazed eyes, attempted to sit up straighter, preparing to defend himself if the occasion arose. Lexa stared down at him with contempt.

"He'll survive." she drawled, her voice dripping with venom.

Spitting out a mouthful full of blood, Bellamy's eyes shot daggers into Lexa's. "You're the bitch that ruined the entire rescue mission?"

From behind the Commander, Indra snarled and was about to rush Bellamy when Lexa stopped her with the blunt side of her blade.

"Stand down," she said in Grounder tongue, halting Indra. The enraged woman worked her jaw furiously and lowered her own sword with reluctance. Satisfied, Lexa turned her attention back to Bellamy. "I saved my people. That was always my plan. And that was what they expected of me."

"Selfish, traitorous –"

"Why did you attack us?" Clarke interrupted before Bellamy said something that would get himself killed. She refused to let herself be hurt by Lexa's statement, she refused to let her voice show any sign of weakness. Lexa never wanted Clarke, only what she could give.

"Because," the Commander started. "Your presence is requested at Polis and I was instructed by the council to retrieve Clarke Griffin of Ark Station."

"I would rather die of radiation sickness then go anywhere with you." Clarke hissed. Beside her, Bellamy grunted in agreement. She turned her to attention to him, his lids half closed and his face pale. Unconsciously, she reached down and brushed his dark curls out of his eyes, a familial gesture meant to comfort him. If Clarke didn't stop the blood loss soon, he would slip into unconsciousness or worse – die.

"That's a shame, considering that the other Skypeople settlements were so insistent upon seeing you." Lexa sneered, her voice suddenly turning dark.

Clarke's entire body froze. Her breath hitched in her throat as she gazed up at Lexa in disbelief, her eyes wide.

Other space stations? Other survivors?

That couldn't be possible, it was _impossible_. Her mom would've told her – Jaha would've known. After the war, all the other surviving space stations orbiting the Earth were unified into one. It was simply impossible. There couldn't be others.

Lexa, noticing Clarke's change of demeanor, swung her horse's head around, smiling knowingly. The Grounders surrounding her snapped to attention, prepared to follow whatever order came next.

"Best get a move on, Clarke," Lexa called over her shoulder, her voice once again sounding light. "You wouldn't want to anger the council."


	9. Hallucinations

The last thing Bellamy remembered was Clarke's cool hands upon his face, her fingers brushing away his hair – calming him. He remembered hearing her challenge Lexa, demanding information about Polis and the supposed "council". He also recalled being in such severe pain that he would've welcomed death if Death had come to claim him. It had reached a point where even breathing had felt like a thousand, painful stabs to the chest.

Bellamy had blacked out soon after that.

His dreams, however, were strangely pleasant. They were filled with euphoric, colorful images – almost like one of Clarke's watercolor paintings. The visions were a cacophony of life and death, an almost violent symphony of his greatest wishes and deepest desires. He could see Octavia, spinning and dancing across the Ark's ballroom floor – laughing with obvious joy, her face alight with happiness. She was wearing a blue dress that mirrored the likeness of van Gogh's _The Starry Night_. Bellamy also saw his mother, a swirl of scarlet and grey brush strokes, a luscious yet oddly enigmatic woman.

And then there was Clarke. Beautiful and intelligent and courageous Clarke Griffin.

She stood before Bellamy, uncorrupted by the events that would later come to define their days here on Earth. Her blonde hair was tamed and uncharacteristically straight. Her white shirt and, he believed they were called jeans, made her appear light – wholesome. The landscape behind her was a swirl of green and blue, mixing and mingling like water in a stream. Bellamy wanted to reach out and touch her, wanted to see if she felt as soft as she looked. He wondered if the cool scent of earth and air clung to her just as it clung to him. This was a side of Clarke that he'd never seen before. Her image, swathed in innocence, captivated him wholly.

Smiling at him, dream Clarke crossed her arms and tossed her hair over her shoulder. "What's gotten into you, Bell? You look different." she remarked, her voice echoing all around them.

Bellamy looked down at himself. Surprisingly, he was wearing a white, collared shirt and light colored pants – similar to what he wore the day they returned to Camp Jaha. The clothes matched Clarke's perfectly, his colors complimenting hers. It was unusual. Bellamy almost always preferred darker tones. Blacks and greys, those were the shades that mirrored his demeanor, his personality.

"Not your clothes," Clarke clarified, her tone laughing. "_You_."

And, suddenly, she was standing directly in front of him, as if transported by magic. Bellamy gazed down at her then, Clarke's body awash in a golden glow. She was grinning like she used to grin all those months ago, a rosiness in her cheeks that wasn't there before.

"_I_ look different?" he questioned, words caught in his throat and voice too soft.

"Yes," dream Clarke breathed and reached up, running a gentle finger along the side of his face. "Your eyes are softer – clearer."

She was studying him now, no longer just a girl, but a master artist inspecting an illustrated canvas. Clarke – delicately, lightly, slowly – ran her hand down his neck, her touch teasing his exposed skin until she eventually reached his chest. Bellamy committed her face to memory and watched closely as her eyes concentrated on the task at hand.

"You can't see it, but there is no dark hatred tainting your soul anymore, resentment maybe, but not hatred." Clarke placed both hands firmly on his upper chest. "It's beautiful. Have you ever seen the Sun emerge from an eclipse? Well that is what this looks like. I wish I could draw –"

Bellamy caught her hands, stopping her calculated movements, her lovely words, and entwined their fingers together. They fit together perfectly, like missing puzzle pieces recently discovered.

"Why are you telling me this?" he whispered, gazing down at her with an open and curious expression.

Clarke tilted her head, looking dumbfounded. "Because I want to make _you_ understand that there _is_ goodness inside of you."

"I'm not a good man, Clarke." Bellamy replied callously.

"Then you don't see what _I _see," she whispered, untwining her fingers from his. Instead, Clarke pressed against him, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Survival hasn't corrupted you. It has made you into a good and honest leader. You're the one person that I have complete faith in."

"Clarke…"

"You're the one person that hasn't abandoned me." Clarke choked, tears clouding her eyes.

Bellamy yearned to embrace her, to reassure her that he was only human, that he was no different than her. But as she placed her head on his chest and as he was about to wrap his arms securely around her frame, she faded away. Clarke materialized, once again, a few feet in front of him, only this time she was dressed as a Grounder in dark leathers and black war paint.

"I wouldn't be anything without you. You're the one that they respect, not me. I'm just a drunk that has a reputation for sleeping around." Bellamy explained, wanting to take a step forward but found that his feet were rooted to the earth.

"I'm poison to them, poison to you." Clarke grounded out, her demeanor changing instantly, the landscape suddenly turning dark – black even. The war paint on her face changed from black to red. The paint, the color of fresh blood, dripped down her face and onto her armor. "Unlike you, my heart has turned black because of the things we've done and, _and_ you don't need me anymore."

"Of course I need you, Clarke," Bellamy pleaded. "_We all do_."

"You can't let me in. You can't let me into your life." Clarke went on, shaking her head as little tremors shot through her body. "Everyone I love…"

"Stop –" Bellamy began, trying desperately to move his feet, but his feet were not to be moved. He looked up again and saw that Clarke had turned her back on him, staring off into the black void.

"You can't let me in… let me –" Clarke's voice started to fade off into the distance and her image started to crumble and fly away like an old, archaic vase.

The landscape around Bellamy began to collapse in on itself. And, unlike before, instead of a swirl of bright colors, there was only darkness. Clarke had vanished – nothing but her echoing voice remained.

"No!" he screamed, but his throat was raw. He struggled to escape from where he stood, but it seemed as though he was bound to the earth. Eventually he gave up and sank to his knees, unable to cry out because he had no voice.

"Bellamy, you don't need my help… don't let me in…" Clarke's voice was nothing but a wisp in the air.

Blackness consumed him and his world went dark. He called out, but Clarke's name was only a whisper upon his lips. She continued to tease him, to warn him. Consciousness soon overcame Bellamy's hallucination, but her words still remained in his head.

"He needs my help!" Clarke's voice was distant now, muffled. "I swear on my mom's life, if you don't let me in I'll slit your beefy throat!"

"Lexa ordered that I let no one in without her command." A gruff voice replied.

"The hell she did!" Clarke snapped.

"Don't make me –" the same man replied before being hastily silenced. There was the sound of someone gasping and the sickening thud of a punched gut.

Bellamy attempted to open his eyes, but the light instantly blinded him.

"Damn Grounders…" Clarke muttered. Bellamy tilted his head and through narrowed eyes, he could see her dragging a hefty body inside. It appeared that Bellamy was lying on a cot furnished within a large, empty tent.

"Clarke?" he choked, his voice nothing but a throttled whisper.

"Bell!" she immediately replied, straightening her back and rushing to his side. "You're alright."

Clarke, sitting down on a stool beside his cot, ran a gentle hand across his hair.

"Everything fucking hurts." he groaned. And it seemed that the more conscious he became, the more pain he felt.

"I know," Clarke answered quietly. "I'm here. It's going to be okay."


	10. A Leader's Keeper

Bellamy was doused in a layer of sweat and blood, his shirt stained with fear and pain. Clarke's face contorted as she gently stroked his damaged face. No doubt the Grounders had roughed him up before bringing him to this tent in the middle of their temporary encampment. They hadn't even bothered giving his wound a proper dressing. The makeshift gauze was bound with a sloppiness that made Clarke's blood boil.

The fact of the matter was that the Grounders _wanted _Bellamy to die. And they wanted it to be painful. And they wanted it to be slow.

They never intended to bring him along. That was why they tried to kill him. In their eyes, Bellamy was nothing but an annoyance – a bug to be exterminated. The Grounders didn't believe in co-leaders, only in a supreme commander.

The man lying in a mangled heap before her opened his eyes and lifted a shaking hand. Clarke took his into her own and pressed it to her tearstained cheek. The skin upon his hand was scarred and rough, but it reminded her of the resilient warrior who still existed within Bellamy.

"Clarke?" he asked, his voice low, for it took all of his energy just to speak a few choice words. "I'm going to die, aren't I?"

To see Bellamy like this – it broke Clarke's heart.

"I won't let you." she whispered back, her thumb stroking the backside of his hand.

Bellamy shivered and, afterwards, immediately cringed. Clarke could practically see the pain reverberating through his entire body. He cried out in anguish, his body arching off the bed.

"Shhh," Clarke murmured desperately, rattled by Bellamy's current state. "I'm going to fix it, okay? You're going to be alright."

He cast a sideways glance at her, his eyes glazed and full of disbelief. He was still grasping onto her hand as if his life depended on it – which, coincidentally, it did.

"Do whatever you have to do," Bellamy grounded out. "But I swear, if you don't have any alcohol –"

"Look, we're going to have to do this the old fashioned way," Clarke began and pulled a bullet out her back pocket. "You're going to have to bite the bullet."

Bellamy's head fell down against the pillow. "Always the bearer of great news…"

Clarke rolled her eyes.

"Come on, sit up, you're going to have to help me out. We don't have much time." she explained and lifted him up. She noticed Bellamy resist the urge to scream out in obvious pain. She noticed his hands curl against the cot. She noticed the sharp intake of breath as he sat up straight.

"Take off your shirt."

"Moving rather fast, aren't we?" he teased darkly, speaking in coarse tones. "No drinks. No walk through the woods – just bite the bullet Bellamy, take off your shirt Bellamy."

"Shut the hell up before I change my mind and let you die." she snapped.

"Ouch, that one really hurt," he replied. "And here I thought Clarke Griffin actually had feelings for me."

Casting a look of imperative warning, she was able to quiet Bellamy with nothing but her eyes. He muttered something under his breath, something about Clarke being a stubborn automaton. She chose to ignore his callous statement.

He slowly brought his legs over the side of the wooden cot and faced her reluctantly. And because Clarke was sitting so close, her legs and knees touching one another, Bellamy had to spread his on either side of hers. Reaching forward, she fingered the hem of his shirt. Getting the shirt off would be a challenge, not to mention awkward, especially after their earlier escapade in Mount Weather. Clarke hesitated for a fraction a second and her knuckles unintentionally brushed his stomach.

"Here." Bellamy said, his voice husky and weak. He placed his hands over hers and helped Clarke lift up the shirt – slowly, not all at once.

Clarke chastised herself for allowing a moment of hesitation to pass. She was used to treating patients every day – shirtless patients. Treating Bellamy shouldn't be anything different. He was her co-leader, her rock, the one person she depended on. She had no romantic feeling for him whatsoever, _none_. Not even his perfectly mused hair or chiseled body could change that. And right now, he was a wounded soldier and she an experienced doctor. There was no time to think of them as anything else.

Tossing the discarded, filthy shirt to the floor Clarke said, "I'll bring you a new one if I can." she paused briefly, examining the exposed wound. It was already turning green with infection. "Dammit. Okay, you need to lie down and I'm going to have to clean it then stitch it back up."

"Hopefully, the infection has only developed on the surface and not underneath the skin." she continued, muttering to herself, gently poking and prodding the tender area.

By now, Bellamy was once again on his back and staring up at Clarke.

"The arrowhead is still lodged deep in there. Fucking Grounders removed just the arrow shaft without the head…" Clarke mumbled, her finger tracing the outskirts of the torn flesh.

"Princess –"

"I can't cauterize it because I don't have anything to work with…" she went on, oblivious to Bellamy's voice.

"Clarke." he said sharply.

"What?" she responded instantly, befuddled by Bellamy's sudden and loud voice. Her hands splayed across his stomach.

"Stop talking and just fix the damn thing." he growled through gritted teeth. Clarke stared pointedly at him and noticed the clenching of his jaw, the fierceness in his eyes. Bellamy didn't want to die, not today.

"Because you're in chronic pain, I won't hold that one against you." she replied coolly and went to work with the smuggled tools that she had hidden within her jacket. She set them on the cot and dragged her stool closer.

"This is going to hurt, a lot. Do you want the bullet?" Clarke asked softly. "It might help with the pain."

And, like a typical man with testosterone running through the roof, he replied with a gruff – "No."

Clarke nodded solemnly, respecting his wishes, and set to work.

Cleaning the wound caused Bellamy little pain. And Clarke only had enough alcohol to wipe away the infection – much to Bellamy's stated dismay. The abrasion already looked cleaner, free of puss and dead tissue. At least the arrow went through rather cleanly. The arrowhead itself wasn't as jagged as some of the other ones she had seen.

"I'm going to pull out the arrowhead and start stitching you up now," Clarke explained calmly and gazed down into Bellamy's eyes, hoping her composed demeanor would help relax him. "You might become unconscious, you might not."

His face inadvertently paled. "Real reassuring, Clarke."

"Hey," she murmured, her face softening. She bent closer to him and trailed her fingers along his jawline. She watched as moisture gathered in his eyes and his breathing hitched. "I won't let anything bad happen to you."

Bellamy shut his eyes. "That's what I told Octavia the day she was born…" he whispered.

"Well then, trust in those words." Clarke replied. "They've held true, haven't they?"

Bellamy nodded and said nothing else.

"Alright," she resolved and reluctantly brought her hand away from Bellamy's face. "Try not to move or shout too loudly."

And, once more, she focused on the task at hand. Letting out a deep, settling sigh, she reached down and readied her fingers on the arrowhead. They came into contact with the warm obsidian and tightly grasped the rocky stone.

"One, two, three –" Clarke counted and swiftly pulled out the arrowhead.

"Fuck." Bellamy shouted, clenching his fists. Every muscle in his body flexed and tensed from the immediate pain, the immediate agony. The veins in his neck pulsated to a near bursting point. His entire body clenched up and his joints locked into place.

Blood began to pour from the aggravated wound and Clarke had to stop it with some clean cloth that she had boiled earlier.

"It's done," she assured him and stroked back his hair. "It's done, the arrowhead is out."

"God, Clarke," he groaned. "You sure know how to show a man a good time."

"I'll take that as a compliment, considering it's coming from _you_." she replied nonchalantly and pushed him back down onto the cot, cleaning up the rest of the blood running down his abdomen.

After a moment of silence, Bellamy mumbled, "Don't they have any drugs around here?"

"Herbal stuff, yes." Clarke replied while preparing for the second half of the procedure. "I can try getting you some. Now stop talking and let me do my job."

With tools in hand, she readied herself for mending torn flesh. Clarke wasn't squeamish, but she didn't want to accidentally hurt Bellamy. She glanced over at him and found that he was staring at her intently, his eyes occasionally dropping to her hands. He gave her a crooked smile.

"What?"

"Hasn't anyone ever told you that you're beautiful?" he asked.

The statement caught Clarke off-guard. Bellamy, Bellamy thought she was beautiful? She had been called many things throughout her life, pretty, intelligent, resourceful, but never _beautiful_. And to hear it spoken from Bellamy's lips, and _now_ of all times, made her stomach flip. A deep blush settled in her cheeks and she clenched her jaw, looking away.

The pain was probably inducing strong hallucinations with the brain releasing endorphins to battle the severe trauma.

"I'm going to start now…" Clarke began slowly, unsure of how to respond to Bellamy's declaration.

"Wait," Bellamy interrupted, his voice chortled. His reached up and caught her hand. "Will you stay? After you've finished?"

"Bell, I –"

"Please?" he sounded desperate.

Clarke paused for a brief moment.

"Yes," she murmured. "I'll stay with you."

**A/N:** _**I hope all of you who are keeping up to date with "Lost Love Found" are enjoying this story! Honestly, your support and feedback really motive me to move forward with the plotline that I have in mind. Comments are always appreciated and I would love to hear what you guys think! I cherish each and every one of my readers.**_

_**XOXO**_


	11. Early Rising

When Clarke had finished stitching Bellamy's wound, she set down her mediocre surgical tools and stood abruptly, knocking over the wooden stool she had been sitting on. It fell to the dirt floor with a hollow thump, echoing the hollow beat of Clarke's tired and empty heart.

Running an unsteady hand through her mangled hair, she started to pace back and forth from one end of the tent to the other.

Bellamy wouldn't die – not while blood still coursed through Clarke's veins. If he happened to break out into a fever because of his injury, she was sure he could overcome it. She was convinced that Bellamy could overcome anything. He would survive this. He would survive this because Clarke needed him alive – she needed _him_. The revelation washed over Clarke, cleansing her sight and mind, baptizing her in a way that she never expected.

Clarke realized that she didn't want to live in a world without Bellamy Blake. He was the other half that made her whole. They balanced each other in ways that even Clarke couldn't comprehend.

She ceased pacing and stood in the center of tent, gazing at Bellamy's sleeping form. She studied the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the soft intake and outtake of breath. Once again, Clarke was reminded of how young he truly was, of how young they _both _were. He was handsome, that much was undeniable, but his attractiveness stemmed from something much deeper. Perhaps it was his broken soul that appealed to Clarke's fragmented heart or the way that he fiercely protected those he loved. Either way, Bellamy was like no man she had ever known before.

Clarke took careful and slow steps towards Bellamy. Bending over, she picked up the wooden stool and dragged it closer to him. She wouldn't leave him, not tonight, not when he asked her to stay.

She reached over and touched the side of his face, her fingers softly winding his inky curls. Clarke thought she saw his eyes flutter beneath closed lids, but dismissed it as nothing more than a lucid dream. He had fallen unconscious halfway through Clarke's procedure, giving into the seductive and painless nature of oblivion. All he needed right now was rest, time for his body to recuperate. She would find the pain-reliving drugs he asked for when he woke up.

Yawning, Clarke placed her arms on the cot beside Bellamy's and laid her head on his bare chest, far away from his wound.

"Night, Bell…" she murmured.

Eventually, the gentle beat of his heart and the steady rhythm of his breathing lulled her to sleep. And, despite the fact that they were surrounded by hundreds of Grounders, Clarke had never felt safer sleeping by Bellamy's side.

. . .

A gruff and guttural voice awoke Bellamy from his euphoric dream. And for a moment, he felt no pain, felt no sorrow, nothing but the empty promises of an elusive reality. Of course with his vision blurred and his senses dulled, Bellamy believed he was still within his dreamscape. It was as if he was floating in space and was merely an observer to events beyond his control. After all, in what reality was Clarke Griffin snoring softly and curled fast asleep next to him? In what reality was she not berating him?

She was pressed against him, her head on his shoulder, her breath teasing his jawline. Bellamy, too, was turned slightly towards her with his arm fastened tight around her waist. The cot was so narrow that even with one of Clarke's legs dangling off the bed, there remained little room to move. And how she got herself into this position was up to the imagination.

_Hell_, he thought, _it certainly didn't look comfortable_.

Bellamy tried to shift his weight over, but that only resulted in a severe, stabbing pain to his side. He swore, unintentionally, and right next to Clarke's ear. She mumbled something in her sleep and reflexively swatted his chest.

And it appeared that, even while she slept, Bellamy couldn't escape Clarke's stubborn criticisms.

He sighed and leaned his head back against the pillow. Gazing down at Clarke from the corner of his eye, the realization hit him – _Clarke was sleeping beside him_. Granted, it was more like she was sleeping _on top_ of him, but still, to have Clarke snoring by his side was unexpected. Bellamy had only asked her to stay with him, not sleep next to him.

Brushing her hair back and winding it through his fingers, Bellamy suddenly recalled the images from the night before. He remembered the taste of her skin, the gentle curve of her shoulder and the softness of her lips. Clarke herself was not sensual, but the way she kissed him that night invigorated Bellamy in ways he never thought possible. She wasn't like the other girls he had slept with, no. Clarke was more alive, touching him and urging him as if every second would be their last.

Bellamy tossed an arm across his eyelids and let out another deep and lengthy sigh. Clarke was beautiful, but she was not his – she wasn't anybody's. Her heart had been torn and patched back together one too many times. And that kind of pain did not heal easily. The mind may forget, but the heart never does.

He had almost fallen back asleep when he heard the low, gruff voice again. Only this time, the speaker barged into the tent without warning.

Lifting his arm slightly, Bellamy noted the large and burly Grounder stomping around the tent wielding a massive claymore. When the man saw the other Grounder incapacitated on the ground, he shouted out in their tongue. Seconds later, Lexa shoved her way through the animal skin entrance, her face hardening into a scornful expression. The man grunted something, pointed to Bellamy and Clarke, then turned back to his commander.

Lexa's eyes immediately landed on the pair stretched out across the cot and her entire body bristled with anger. She snapped at the Grounder standing before her and slapped him hard across the cheek. The man didn't even bother with apologies, merely bowed his head in resignation. When she turned her attention back towards Bellamy and Clarke, her eyes locked onto the girl cradled in Bellamy's arms.

Bellamy caught a brief moment of longing in Lexa's eyes. It was quick, but he could've sworn that the look was a look of yearning. His arm instinctively pulled Clarke closer to his chest, disturbing her gentle slumber.

"Bell," she muttered, nuzzling his neck. "Bell, it's too early for this…"

By now, the Commander had realized that Bellamy was awake. He looked from Clarke to Lexa, then back to Clarke. She had must have heard Clarke and somehow blamed Bellamy for her sleepy fondling. And judging by the way she was curling her fingers into fists, he suspected that she wasn't happy about it.

"Clarke," Bellamy whispered anxiously in her ear. "Clarke, wake up."

"Can't we just stay in bed?" she mumbled and Bellamy felt her arm tighten around his stomach, wanting him to stay even in sleep.

Lexa cleared her throat. "Am I interrupting something?"

When Clarke's ear registered the Commander's voice, she shot upwards, her head nearly colliding with Bellamy's chin.

"What?" she hurried, her voice a high pitched squeak.

Lexa placed a fisted hand on her hip and scrutinized Clarke with a harsh glare while Bellamy chuckled at Clarke's disheveled appearance: her shirt half way up her back, clothes wrinkled and hair in disarray. He reached over and pulled the fabric down, his fingers trailing down her back. Goosebumps immediately formed along her skin. She quickly turned around and stared at him. For a moment, a look of confusion was chiseled across her features before her eyes widened in realization.

"Bellamy?" she breathed and immediately jumped off the cot, almost tripping in the process.

"We're leaving for Polis," Lexa interjected with an emotionless tone. "And I need to speak to Clarke – alone."

With that being said, Lexa stormed out of the tent, taking with her all her rage and aggression. The Grounder, who for this entire time was stationed beside her, followed her out.

For a moment no one moved, not until Clarke looked back over her shoulder at Bellamy.

"What the hell was _that_ all about?" he demanded, propping himself up on his elbows.

She shook her head, dismissing the question. "I'll find out what I can about this trip. I'll be right back."

"Clarke –" he started, but she was already gone.


	12. Ultimatum

Clarke was led by Lexa to one of the large, animal skinned tents near the center of camp. Grounders stopped and stared as they passed. Men gripped their weapons tighter. Women pulled their masks over painted faces. They made sneering remarks, occasionally spitting in Clarke's direction. She glared back at them defiantly, unafraid and unabashed. Taunt and scorn her all they damn well they like, but they wouldn't break Clarke's resolve.

Lexa pulled open the tent flap for Clarke and waited for her to step inside, giving distinct orders to the Grounders outside the tent. Walking further into the room, Clarke noticed several command tables and barrels of weapons resting atop a fur covered floor. Maps hung on the walls along with other posters written in a language she couldn't understand. Lexa brushed past her then, striding ahead and sitting upon an antlered throne.

"Well, Clarke," she said after a moment of drawn out silence. "Are you going to tell me how you escaped your captors and managed to find Bellamy's tent?"

"They're gullible. It wasn't hard to make them talk." Clarke replied casually and began to trail her fingers along one of the command tables. She noticed familiar looking landmarks like Mount Weather, Camp Jaha and the weapon depot sketched haphazardly across the surface. There were unfamiliar landmarks as well, many of them lining the coast – even a large city complete with mock buildings.

Lexa bristled at the statement Clarke had made about her Grounders, her jaw working furiously. "There was really no need to tie them to poles, Clarke. I can assure you that Bellamy was attended –"

"He was bleeding out!" she snapped suddenly, slamming her hand down on the table. "If I hadn't found him he would've died either of blood loss or infection."

"Your concern for him runs to deep," Lexa said, continuing on as if Clarke's outburst had never occurred. "It's a dangerous game you're playing at, you _and_ him."

"There is _no_ game." Clarke growled.

"Don't be naïve. No one respects an ignorant girl." she replied, drawling out this last part, slowly, deliberately, as if taunting Clarke's self-control.

"Ignorant girl?" Clarke shouted.

Lexa let out a long, controlled breath and began to play with her ivory dagger, tossing it over in her hands. The medal blade glinted in the morning sunlight cascading down from holes in the roof of the tent. "Do you really not see it? Honestly, Clarke, it was obvious from the moment I met you two."

"You better stop answering questions with questions or I swear –"

"Swear what?" Lexa interjected. "You'll kill me? We all know that _you_ would never do that, not to me."

That morning, for the very first time, Clarke's mouth snapped shut. She balled her fingers into fists, wishing that she had her gun, feeling naked without it. And with a leering expression her face, Lexa leaned back and crossed her legs. In her mind, she had won. She had won this little confrontation with Clarke. All she had to do was play on her feelings and, in doing so, Lexa had single handedly disarmed Clarke's inner fire.

"Don't give me that shit about love and weakness…" she muttered, looking down and away from Lexa. She didn't want to hear it again, not from _her_, not when it was Clarke's love that saved her people from Mount Weather.

"Maybe you don't need to hear it," Lexa started. "But perhaps Bellamy does."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Clarke demanded, her anger resurfacing at the mention of his name.

There was a long pause, an _infinitely_ long pause. Once more, Clarke was glaring at Lexa, but, this time, Lexa was the one looking away. And, for a moment, there was a deep sadness reflective in her eyes.

"Bellamy is in love with you."

Clarke's entire world stopped spinning. Her heart dropped into her stomach. Her ability to form coherent words vanished. The Earth came to an immediate and abrupt halt on its axis. The gentle and constant hum of the core ceased to rumble. Birds stopped singing, men and women stopped talking, the sounds of the forest dissipated along with Clarke's capability of intelligible language.

"What?" Clarke's voice was barely audible – nothing more than a breath of silk riding the wind.

"The way he speaks to you, the way he held you as you slept," Lexa began almost bitterly, her lip curling like a dog's. "The way he _looks _at you as if you hold the sun in your hands…"

"Stop!" Clarke yelled, throwing up a hand. She felt very dizzy all of the sudden.

Lexa tilted her head in mock confusion, her false sympathies etched across her shadowed face. Then, she rose from her throne, her long, red cape falling down and around her legs. She made her way towards Clarke, taking slow and deliberate steps.

"He doesn't love me. Not in that way." Clarke continued, muttering more to herself than to the Commander.

"Perhaps," agreed Lexa as she began to circle Clarke like a cat circles a mouse. "But if he does love you, it puts our whole plan in jeopardy. It puts _you_ in jeopardy."

"Is this about Polis?" she demanded, watching Lexa through wary eyes. "I'm not going anywhere with you until you tell me why the hell I'm here."

The Commander stopped pacing and stood a hair's breath away from Clarke's face. For a moment Clarke froze like a rabbit before a poacher, uncertain of her proximity. She was staring at her full lips, her wheat colored hair, her flushed cheeks. Lexa reached out a hand, but Clarke slapped it away – breaking whatever hold the Grounder had on her.

Lexa snarled and backed away like a sullen wolf.

"At the moment you're a guest," she began in a low and threatening voice. "Do not test my hospitality – _sky-person_."

"Last I checked guests weren't purposefully wounded by their hosts." Clarke retorted.

Lexa's hand shot out and forcibly grabbed Clarke's chin, her nails digging into the soft flesh. She felt the blood rushing to where Lexa had broken the skin. The black war paint decorating her face did nothing to mask the hatred in her eyes. Lexa's armor, her hair, even her demeanor had come undone.

"You are alive by my will, you survive because I allow you to survive," Lexa hissed. "You and Bellamy will arrive at the capital masquerading as friends, as allies to the Forest Nation. You will forge an alliance between the Grounder nations and the other Skypeople civilizations."

"Why?"

"Why?" Lexa repeated, still gripping her face. "Because Clarke, the history you were told is not the history of this earth."

There was a brief and weighted pause – a thick and heavy anticipation.

"War is coming. And we are not prepared."


	13. The Unexpected

After several long hours of pacing absentmindedly, of worrying incessantly, of agonizing over wild and unreasonable thoughts – Bellamy practically knocked Clarke over when she finally returned to the tent.

He thought he had lost her again.

Bellamy engulfed her, pulling Clarke against his chest and holding her without any intention of ever letting go. He heard her gasp, light and breathy. It was a beautiful and totally innocent exhalation of surprise. At first, she went rigid, her entire body hardening like stone – until she began to laugh uncontrollably. Her small frame, pressed to his chest, softened and shook with laughter.

Bellamy rested his chin against her hair, her curly, golden hair and said, "I thought something happened to you."

"Bell, I'm fine," Clarke replied in between hiccups of laughter, her pet name slipping seamlessly off her tongue. "You shouldn't be hugging me. You'll hurt your abdomen."

"You think I care?" he said and gripped her shoulders, holding her in front of him at arm's length. "God, Clarke, I was about to embark on a crusade."

"Don't be ridiculous." Clarke chastised, still smiling. She was looking up at him now, her face unguarded and transparent. Here stood the Clarke that he had seen in his dreams – utterly beautiful and utterly human. She was an open book now and adoration played across her face like a masterful artist had drawn her features.

He took a slow step towards her, reaching for a loose tendril of hair that had escaped from behind Clarke's ear. Bellamy noticed her head tilt back as she stared at him with curiosity, as he came closer. He ran the delicate strands of hair between his fingers, admiring the luminosity and weightlessness of it. Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity, he returned the tendril of hair to its rightful place.

Clarke laid a tentative hand against his chest then. However, Bellamy caught it and pressed it against his cheek. And she let him.

"Clarke," he murmured, his voice thick and soft with desire, and she leaned towards him, swaying like a tree whose branches were urged by the wind. Bellamy's whole body ached; he ached, as though there were some terrible hollowness inside of him that needed to be filled. He became aware of her, more conscious of her being, of her lovely blue eyes, of her rose colored cheeks, of the scars carved upon her collarbone – and more than anything else, he became conscious of her mouth, the fullness of her lips.

When Bellamy leaned towards her and brushed his lips across hers, she reached for him as if she would otherwise drown. Their mouths pressed hotly together and his hand became entangled in her hair. He heard Clarke gasp when he tugged her closer, his arms wrapping around her waist. It was that feathery gasp which resulted in a deep, resonating growl.

Clarke trailed her hands up his chest before she wrapped them around his neck, supposedly to drag him closer. Bellamy, in turn, let his own hands wander down her back and play with the hem of her shirt. It was only when his fingers brushed the soft skin of her lower back that Clarke gave a little cry of surprise against his mouth. And then, without warning, she ripped her hands away and pushed hard against Bellamy's shoulders, shoving him away with such force that he nearly stumbled backwards.

"Hell," Clarke whispered, touching her lips. "What was that?"

Bellamy stood, dumfounded, and stared back at her. And it looked as though tears were welling in her eyes, as if she had just lost someone she loved. She kept running her thumb along her bottom lip and her hand through her hair. Clarke's cheeks were flushed and her mannerisms unsteady. Meanwhile, Bellamy tried to control his _own_ breathing, slow the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

"I'll take a guess and say that you were excited to see me." Bellamy shrugged, attempting a persona of nonchalance while, in reality, he was anything but.

Clarke was silent, but he could still hear the raspy intake and outtake of breath. She took in a deep mouthful of air and exhaled it slowly.

"Bellamy," she began. "Do you – I mean, Lexa said –"

There was movement outside the tent and, suddenly, it was as if the Grounder camp had come alive. Horses were whinnying, Grounders were shouting and carts rattled along the dirt road. All sorts of loud noises drifted in through the tent. People were shouting orders and hefting weapons back and forth, a symphony of wood and steel. How could they have not heard this before? How long had they been kissing?

The tent flap opened and Indra stepped inside. "The horses are saddled and readied. We leave now." she said gruffly and as quickly as she appeared, she disappeared.

"Clarke?" Bellamy prodded when the woman left and took a step towards her. Clarke visibly tensed at the sound of his voice.

"Never mind. Forget it," she snapped. "Let's go."

She was about to turn her back on him when he reached out and grabbed her arm, spinning her around. "Hey," he murmured, lightly touching her cheek. "You don't have to run. _Please_, Clarke, don't shut me out again."

The desperation in his voice must have made her pause because her eyes immediately softened. She laid a gentle hand on his upper arm, staring at him directly. "I just, I just need time that's all. I – I … not now."

He watched as Clarke's eyes drifted away and as she gnawed on her lower lip. And Bellamy nodded because he respected her more than anyone else on this planet. He would lay down his life for Clarke Griffin and, more importantly, he had made a silent resolution to never leave her, to stay by her side. They were leaders, partners, and that meant they shared the deepest sort of loyalty. It was a loyalty forged by hardship and compromise, by frustration and love.

She would forever hold a special place in his heart; in a cavernous alcove that he never knew existed.

It was at this moment that Clarke reached out and briefly hugged him. One moment she was around him and the next, she wasn't. When she pulled away, her entire demeanor had changed and she smiled up at Bellamy.

"Have you ever ridden a horse before?" she asked.

Bellamy snorted, indignant.

"You know that I prefer to keep _both_ of my feet on the ground." he replied in a joking, yet utterly serious manner.

"Oh, come on," Clarke teased. "I'm sure they'll give you a little mule. You have nothing to worry about."

"And by mule you mean ass?"

"I couldn't think of a better match." Clarke said, attempting to remain humorless and failing abominably.

Bellamy playfully lunged for her, but Clarke managed to dodge him and stumbled outside the tent, laughing hysterically. He followed her moments later, glowering. And when he pushed open the tent flap, he saw that she was already striding towards the wagons and horses. He crossed his arms and watched her go, so confident and sure of herself in the face of adversary, even when certain Grounders were spitting out rude comments.

He let out a deep sigh and followed her into the unseen. All Bellamy knew was that they were headed into enemy territory, Grounder territory. He would be lying to himself if he said they weren't walking straight into the lions' den.


	14. Riding Habits

"Enjoying yourself?" Clarke teased, reining in her hot tempered mare. The red chestnut had the coloring of crimson fire and an ardent disposition to match it.

Bellamy looked sideways at her, tugging on the mouth of a shaggy looking horse – attempting to slow the already lethargic animal. The horse, no bigger than a pony, took great offense and pinned its ears back, kicking out in frustration. Bellamy rocked forward slightly and jerked his hands up in response to the sudden movement. The grey animal between his legs snorted and shook its long, dirty mane.

"Immensely." Bellamy replied through gritted teeth.

"Oh come on," Clarke said. "It's not that bad. Look, sit up straight and put your heels down. It'll help with your balance." She demonstrated for him, smiling a cocky smile.

"Since when did you become an expert on riding horses?" Bellamy snapped, obviously not appreciating her well-intentioned advice. However, Clarke did note that he sat a little straighter in the saddle and his heels went down a little further.

"Lexa taught me while you were away with Lincoln in Mount Weather," she explained. "I only had a week to learn the basics, but the basics were all I needed to keep me in the saddle."

"Good for you, I'm glad you've taken to it so easily," Bellamy said with a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "But I don't know why _I'm_ riding. I can walk faster than this." He gestured to his shaggy gelding. The horse tossed its head in response.

"I overheard some of the Grounders while I was at the front of the caravan. Apparently, the forest gives way to a dirt road up ahead. They said we would gallop the rest of the way, at least, those who are on horseback will. The rest of them will meet us at Polis." Clarke clarified and bent down to stroke the scarlet mane of her mare.

"The sooner we get there the better," then, in a lower voice, Bellamy muttered, "I don't trust them Clarke. The other space stations you told me about, we would've _known_."

Clarke looked over her shoulder. The Grounders behind them were out of earshot, but they were staring back at her with savage looks on their faces. She urged her horse closer to Bellamy's before clearing her throat nervously.

"I know it's strange, but Lexa told me that this is the first time they're being allowed into her coalition, being invited to Polis. And it's because of _us_ that they're doing so." Clarke replied quietly.

Bellamy turned and looked her straight in the eye. "We need to let Abby know that you're okay and where we're headed. If shit hits the fan, I need to know that we have backup out there waiting for us."

Clarke nodded in agreement.

"I met a Grounder named Echo while I was holed up in Mount Weather," Bellamy went on. "She owes me favor for freeing her and the other Grounders."

"We don't even know if she's here in the convoy, Bell."

"We will, soon enough."

They fell into a companionable silence. Clarke's horse had calmed down, no longer prancing incessantly, while Bellamy's mount had quickened its pace. The sound of their hooves sinking into the mud was an oddly comforting sound. And the gentle sway of the horse beneath Clarke lulled her hips into an easy, repetitive motion. She realized, as they traveled beneath the canopy of trees, that the forest was no longer as frightening as it was once. It held no more secrets. She gazed upwards and caught odd looking animals swinging from tree to tree. Since the bomb dropping, the geography and environment of the east had changed drastically. Things were not as the Ark had said, as the Ark had taught. They, the survivors, had discovered wonderful and fascinating creatures – morphed creatures, evolved creatures, creatures transformed by radiation.

And, when the sky finally relented to darkness, certain parts of the forest bloomed into light, into being – metamorphosing into something truly beautiful and utterly alien. The colors of the night, so vibrant and radiant, intoxicated the eyes with nothing but seductive pigments.

Clarke had experienced it all – only once.

"What are you thinking about?" Bellamy asked, sounding slightly hoarse.

She looked over at him, wondering why he had spoken with such an uncharacteristic voice, and found him staring at her with a longing expression. His lips were quirked and his eyes glinted in what little sunlight drifted through the trees. He had caught Clarke completely off-guard.

"Nothing. Just thoughts." Clarke replied softly, remembering what those lips tasted like. And simply imagining him touching her sent Clarke's heart aflutter. His warmth – his warmth she remembered most of all, that _and_ the security of his arms.

"You're blushing, Clarke." he said, his voice smug and expression goading.

"I am not!" she retorted childishly as she touched her cheek. It was warm, much to her obvious dismay.

"Let's take a guess," he began, running the reins through his fingers. "You're admiring the fact that I look irresistible on a horse."

"Don't flatter yourself." Clarke reprimanded, her words sharp and short. However, when she glanced over at Bellamy, he was still staring at her with that ridiculous smile on his face. She rolled her eyes.

"You know, if I can control a horse this size with my legs –"

"Don't even think about going there." Clarke interrupted, all sorts of explicit images flashing beneath her fluttering eyelids. Her blood pressure spiked at the notion of hot and erotic sex with Bellamy Blake, of his hands and lips exploring her naked body.

"Too late," he commented happily. "Already thought about it."

Clarke's jaw was beginning to work furiously. And while she appreciated Bellamy attempting to be the comic relief, she didn't appreciate the fact that he was making her feel all hot and bothered.

"You better bring that ego of yours down a notch before I –" Clarke's voice drifted off as a horn sounded somewhere ahead of them – loud and demanding.

They had reached the main road. It was time for the riders to fly. She looked back over at Bellamy who, all of the sudden, had become quite serious. His face had gone white. And Clarke raised a curious eyebrow.

"Ready to see if you can control a _galloping _horse?" she goaded, referring to his bravado, which, moments ago, was so apparent.

"How do I –"

"Remember," she instructed. "Heels down and sit up straight. If you can't sit the saddle, lean up off his back and let your hands go with his mouth."

"Easy for you to say, you've done this before." he grumbled through gritted teeth.

Clarke focused her gaze straight ahead. The Grounders in front of them had already taken off on their mounts. The ones behind were impatiently waiting for Bellamy and Clarke to take flight. As they passed beneath a low hanging tree, Clarke snapped off a branch and gripped it in her left hand.

"Try to keep up. Right now, I would hold on to the mane if I were you." she said matter-of-factly and smacked the rump of Bellamy's horse with the thin branch.

The little grey horse pinned its ears back and bolted. Bellamy let out a shout of surprise, but he managed to stay on. Clarke followed the galloping animal, leaning forward and urging her mare faster. Bellamy was about five horse lengths in front of her, his gelding galloping faster than Clarke would've thought possible.

When they broke out of the forest, they broke out with a giant whoosh. And Clarke could hear nothing but the sounds of beating hooves on solid earth. Her swift chestnut easily caught up with Bellamy's. Soon, they were racing beside one another.

"Lean forward!" Clarke shouted over the wind. "Like I told you! Push yourself up!"

He did as he was told. And without the added weight on his back, Bellamy's grey horse was able to gallop faster. Clarke let out a whoop of laughter and squeezed her mare's sides with her legs. Bellamy glanced over at her. He was smiling too.

"If you fall and I have to stitch you back up again, I swear I will skin you alive." Clarke yelled.

"I don't count on it, Princess!"


	15. Welcome to Polis

After a long, hard day of riding, they finally arrived at Polis – the Grounder capital located on this side of the continent. Clarke had been expecting a large encampment of tents and huts, a makeshift metropolis that the Grounders had built out of a ruined town. After all, it had long been assumed that the bombs had destroyed all major cities, leveling every building from east to west. But, in truth, Polis was unlike anything Clarke had ever seen before. Buildings and brick houses stood proud in the starlight. It was in a dilapidated and saddening state of disrepair, yes, but it had remained resilient against the tide of war.

The Commander halted the riding party with a closed fist, coming to a stop on top a hill overlooking the city. Clarke edged her horse closer to the slope, careful not to draw attention to herself.

The city, she noted, was not simply a city, but a harbor full of war canoes and rusted ships. And beyond the harbor lay the open ocean, so vast, that it was hard for Clarke to comprehend the enormity of it. Torchlight, too, doused the harbor city in a soft, golden glow. And, for a moment, she told herself it was electricity and not manmade flame. The simple beauty of it all enamored and captivated Clarke's imagination.

_So this was what the Old World was like_.

"My people!" Lexa began, interrupting Clarke's thoughts and trotting her horse back and forth in front of the enormous party. "Tonight marks the first night of peace and stability. Tonight marks the first night of our coalition. With the help of the Skypeople, we will finally be able to settle old debts, bad blood and archaic alliances."

There was an uproar of united agreement. Grounders pounded their chests and raised their weapons to the air – a completely ironic gesture.

"Lay down your arms, my brothers and sisters, for we cannot foster peace with brute force. We will not hide behind crude weapons, closed fists – the accords strictly forbid such cowardly actions in times of commune. Violence in the capital will not be tolerated!"

Clarke's mare was prancing beneath her, unsettled by the noise and energy. From behind, Bellamy approached on his shaggy gelding, his face pale and posture slouched. She looked at him with concern. The long ride had weakened him greatly. With his sensitive wound still far from healed, Clarke feared that all this movement had only enflamed it. Bellamy moaned in pain, attempting to form coherent words, but none would come.

If Clarke did not address the injury soon, she feared it would be too late.

"Have courage," Lexa went on, her voice ringing with passion. "Do not let old wounds fester, there is strength in peace. Dispose of your weapons and rally your resolve. Tonight, we ride onwards!"

The Grounders hooted and hollered, chanting ancient chants. They repeated Lexa's name like a rallying war cry before galloping down and upon Polis. The Commander remained where she was, staring off after her people. A rare smile tugged at her lips as she sat calmly atop her black horse.

When Clarke approached with Bellamy's horse in hand, Lexa swiveled her head and gazed at them with distaste.

"Yes, Clarke?" she snapped.

"I need to redress his wounds," Clarke replied, her voice dripping with ice. "Bellamy needs to recover somewhere safe and away from the _chaos_."

Lexa waited several seconds before replying. "There is a brick house next to the capital building where all the leaders will be residing for the next few days. _You_ should be able to find it, it's marked clearly enough."

Then, she dug her heels into her horse's sides and rode off into the night without another word. Clarke stared after her for a moment, watching her disappear into the illuminated city, before turning her attention back to Bellamy.

"Bell," she said sharply. "Wake up."

He only groaned in response, his head hanging low and his hands no longer gripping the reins. Clarke would have to lead him the rest of the way and hope that his horse was kind enough to keep him in the saddle.

They started down the slope, slow and steady. She didn't need Bellamy falling off his mount, not tonight.

The hill eventually gave way to a paved road leading into the city. It was a brick road, older than the roads from before the bomb dropping. And as they entered the Grounder capital, a sign came into view. It was coated with dirt and grim and in front of it, a hole brimming with discarded weapons. The sign read:

1649

ANNAPOLIS

MARYLAND'S CAPITAL

Clarke had no weapons to deposit and neither did Bellamy. They walked past the sign without further thought, their horses plodding along. As they were walking through the city, it seemed that the Forest Nation had been the first to arrive. And Clarke assumed the rest of the tribes were coming tomorrow. For now, the Grounders had free reign of the city. They traveled from door to door, scouting buildings and gathering supplies. If they saw Clarke and Bellamy, they paid them no mind.

The brick road the horses were walking upon led straight to the capital building, a massive domed shape structure that, for the most part, had remained intact. It was the one building in the whole capital that was not lit from floor to ceiling. Clarke stared up at it as a deep sense of foreboding settled upon her shoulders. She shivered and urged her horse forwards.

The house that Lexa had spoken of was indeed easy to find. Music and raucous laughter spilled out into the streets. A young Grounder boy dressed in rags was waiting outside and took Bellamy and Clarke's horses without a word. Clarke had to help Bellamy dismount and nearly collapsed under his weight. She cursed loudly as she draped his arm across her shoulders. At this point, she was unsure if he was conscious or not.

"You've got to help me out a little here, Bellamy." Clarke growled as she hefted him inside.

The Grounders within the house were either to drunk or to ignorant to pay Bellamy and Clarke much heed. However, a Grounder woman _did_ notice them and showed them up to a room. She was burly Grounder with thick hair, large joules and several missing teeth. Clarke assumed she was the owner of the large townhouse, but she did not offer them her name. Climbing the stairs appeared to be a challenge for the woman. It was a challenge for Clarke as well.

Once inside the surprisingly lavish room, Clarke helped Bellamy onto the bed and he immediately collapsed backwards onto the mattress, his chest rising and falling in rapid succession. Wiping her sweaty brow, Clarke turned around, thinking that the Grounder woman had left. She had not. She remained in the doorway.

"His room," she said in almost unintelligible English. "Your room up." And the woman pointed upwards.

"No you don't understand –" Clarke began.

"Orders from The Commander," she interrupted gruffly, her thick brows furrowing. "Girl in different room than boy – orders."

"I need to help him. He is wounded." Clarke continued slowly, hoping to make her understand. Clarke gestured to Bellamy's wound. The woman saw the blood on his shirt and wrinkled her nose. She scratched her furry chin in contemplation.

"Healer?" she asked inquisitively.

Clarke nodded excitedly. "Yes, I'm a –"

"I get healer. Boy taken good care of," she replied with a flick of her calloused hand. "I have good healer."

"No, _please_…"

The woman shuffled to the door and called down the stairs in perfect and fluent Grounder tongue. Moments later, two of Lexa's own guard appeared. She was speaking to them with great hand gestures, pointing to her and Bellamy. They nodded and approached Clarke, grabbing her roughly by the arms. The two men smelled like ale and dirt.

"No!" she shouted. "No, you don't understand! I need to help him! He's injured!"

Clarke struggled in her captors' firm grip. She kicked and screamed and cursed. They shushed her with a painful squeeze of the flesh. As they passed the Grounder woman, Clarke let out a string of curses, her eyes wild with ferocity.

"I have good healer," she reassured Clarke calmly. "Water woman. Water woman know way of healing."

She stopped fighting as soon as the Grounders led her out of Bellamy's room. Unbeknown to her, Clarke had tears running down her cheeks – wet, fat tears. Whether she was exhausted from a long day's travel or simply angry at the world, she did not know. They forcibly dragged her up flights and flights of stairs until they reached her own room. The Grounders sat her down on the bed and left without answering any of her questions.

The last thing Clarke remembered was the turning of a key and the resounding _click_ of confinement. She was trapped. Not only was she trapped, but separated from Bellamy. The tears stopped as quickly as they had come. Staring up at the vaulted ceiling, Clarke clutched at the satin sheets beneath her.

If something happened to Bellamy Blake, there would be hell to pay.


	16. Battered Hands and Hearts

**A/N: Let me start off by saying that I had so much fun writing this chapter! I know that it's a little longer than previous ones, but I hope you don't mind. As always, you guys are a true inspiration and I love hearing from you. If you have any ideas for the story or suggestions plot wise, I would love your input!**

**On a side note, reading back through LLF, I realize just how sarcastic my Bellamy is. Honestly though, I love it. I think a sardonic Bellamy complements Clarke perfectly.**

Clarke awoke from a terrible nightmare drenched in sweat and fear. Hot, sticky steam could be seen evaporating off her skin and into the air. Her chest, desperate for oxygen, was heaving as she lay there on satin sheets – paralyzed. However, try as she might, Clarke could not recall _what _the nightmare had been about. All she knew was that it had been the worst, most terrifying, most realistic dream she had ever dreamt. She felt it in her bones, her soul. It clung to her, refusing to be suppressed.

Rolling over onto her stomach, Clarke retched all over the wooden floors before stumbling out of bed to open the windows. She threw them open and gripped the sill until her knuckles drained themselves of blood. Weak – she felt so incredibly _weak_. Clarke could not even remember the last time she'd eaten or drank real water. Pressing her forehead to the window frame, she attempted to steady herself, to regain her strength.

Several floors below, in the streets of Polis, Grounders were marching and shouting in unfamiliar languages, waving foreign banners. These Grounders weren't of the Forest Nation – they were strange and exotic looking. Some didn't even _look_ human. They looked like sea monsters with reeds and water ferns hanging from their armor. Many of the women had even woven green moss through their hair.

"Water people…" Clarke muttered to herself as she observed the aquatic silhouettes pass by beneath her.

They were more slender than the forest Grounders, more languid, built for – what had that woman said last night about the water people? Did she say they were healers?

_Bellamy_.

"Shit," Clarke cursed, turning around. "Shit, shit…"

The dark and sour images from the other night came pouring back, accompanied by voracious amounts of anxiety. Bellamy passing out on his horse, the toothless owner of the house, the Grounders dragging her away from her best friend – it all came rushing back.

Clarke began to panic.

She darted into the adjoining bathroom, rinsing her face and mouth of sleep. She scrubbed and scrubbed until her skin burned red. Eventually, and with great reluctance, Clarke looked at herself in the mirror. She was a frightening sight with dark bags under her eyes, hair coated in grim and clothes stained with blood. Had she always looked like this? Is this how Bellamy had always seen her? Quickly, she tore her gaze away and sprinted into the bedroom.

Right now Clarke had to focus on finding Bellamy. Dwelling on appearances while he was out there suffering… it was selfish of her. She _had _to find him – and hopefully alive.

She scrambled to the door and gripped the handle.

_Please, please be unlocked._

Clarke shook and jiggled the lock to no avail. It was still locked. She let out a cry of frustration and slammed her fist into the wooden door. This couldn't be happening. The Grounders would kill him, Clarke was almost certain. Bellamy was nothing to them. They _hated_ him. She turned around and slumped against the door, her eyes searching desperately for anything to help break her free.

Nothing.

Clarke's gaze drifted back to the window and the noise outside. The raucous voices of Grounders echoed upwards and into her room. The window –

"That's it." Clarke said out loud and ran towards the open window, peering over the edge.

Her room was on the same side of the building as Bellamy's. If she could climb down and reach his window, she could get into his room. The only problem would actually be getting there. After all, he was _four_ floors beneath her.

The building was made of brick, so Clarke wouldn't be short of footholds. But still, the decent would be dangerous, not to mention noticeable. However, it looked as though the Water Nation had almost fully traveled down the road with no other caravan following behind.

Clarke sat and swung her leg over the ledge. She wasn't afraid of heights – at least, that's what she told herself. Closing her eyes, she counted to three before she started climbing down, before putting her life at risk.

She took one brick at a time, one foothold, one handhold at a time. Sometimes, the bricks weren't set deep enough and Clarke had to hold on with only two fingers. Some were rough, some were smooth. Some bricks were even loose.

"This is the dumbest idea –" she began until, all of a sudden, nearly two floor down, a brick from the stone house came unstuck and plummeted to the street below. It had been Clarke's right handhold. Her body swung out slightly before colliding back into the brick building.

She let a light and breathy scream – she didn't mean to – but she screamed.

Her left hand was only holding on by three fingers. And they were slick with sweat. Clarke was too terrified to cry out for help, she couldn't. She couldn't let the Grounders find her. It would endanger Bellamy's safety, not to mention his life. But, so far, no one had seen her clinging to the side of the house. Clarke still had time.

Using all her strength, she managed to lift herself up with only one arm. She saw a brick that she could use for a handhold. If only she could reach it…

Clarke stretched her arm out as far as possible. Her fingers brushed the smooth stone, but she couldn't get a firm grip on it. She was close, so close. Biting her lip, she reached out a little farther.

And it was at that moment, that Clarke's other hand lost its hold and she began to fall down the side of the building – one whole floor flew past, then half of another floor. All she saw was a blur of red bricks and windows. She saw her life flash before her eyes.

She couldn't form words, she couldn't make any sound. Clarke was tumbling towards her imminent death.

Bellamy's window was coming up fast. If only she could catch herself on it.

Reaching her arm out, Clarke made a desperate grab for the sill. All she needed was one handhold, _one_ solid handhold.

Her fingers actually caught the wooden beam and Clarke's body twisted midair, slamming into the frame. This time, despite the pain, not a sound escaped her lips. She had done it. Clarke had a handhold on the sill. Before anything else could happen, she swung her right hand over to join the other. Now she had _two_ solid handholds.

"Oh my God," Clarke breathed. "Oh my God…"

She took in mouthfuls of air and looked up at her hands. They were covered in blood. Most of her finger nails had broken and her skin was peeled back, raw. Her body began to shake and her arms became numb. Clarke had to pull herself up before it was too late, before she lost feeling all together.

As she dragged her body upwards, her biceps screamed in pain. Clarke gritted her teeth and pushed herself up with what little adrenaline she still possessed. Months on the ground had made her strong, but not as strong as she would've liked.

She swung up one foot after the other, shoved open the shutters and tumbled into Bellamy's room – face first.

And, almost immediately, Clarke was hauled to her feet with a dagger kissing her throat. The cold steel nicked her skin, drawing a meager amount of blood. She gasped and gripped the wrist of whoever was holding her. It was a small wrist.

"Make one move and you're dead." hissed a savage female voice, her breath hot next to Clarke's ear. It was heavily accented and clearly belonged to a Grounder.

"Echo meet Clarke, Clarke meet Echo." Bellamy said merrily from somewhere within the darkened room.

The woman behind Clarke growled and shoved her forwards. And she almost fell to her knees from the sheer force of it. Once more, she stumbled before regaining her balance.

"What the hell, Bellamy?" Clarke demanded as her eyes slowly adjusted to the light.

She saw him sitting on a plush chair near the center of the room. He was leaning back, his feet up on the coffee table, looking almost at ease in the high backed seat. Clarke noticed that he was almost naked, save for the fresh wrapping around his abdomen and the pants covering his legs. He was barefoot too, his combat boots tossed to floor next to his bed.

And he was grinning at Clarke, actually grinning. She wanted nothing more than to punch that sardonic smile off his pretty face.

"Echo is blinded by blood lust sometimes." he replied casually.

_Lust_.

Clarke spun around and faced the Grounder who had nearly slit her throat. She was young, probably as old as Bellamy if not a little older. That meant she was at least five years Clarke's senior. She was pretty too, in a rugged, sort of animalistic way. With her long, brown hair and beautifully tanned skin, it was easy to recognize her as one of the Forest Nation.

A surge of childish jealousy flared through Clarke's veins.

"Well, what is _she _doing here?" she wanted to know.

Before Bellamy could open his mouth, Echo opened hers. "He asked me to deliver a message, little lark," she said, her brown eyes glinting in the darkness. "I owe him a favor for breaking me out of that terrible mountain."

"We were just discussing who to deliver the message to when a certain someone happened to fly through the window." He added.

Clarke's temper flared. "You son of a –"

"Marcus Kane?" Echo interrupted. "Is that right?"

"Yes," Bellamy replied, casting a sideways glance at Clarke. "And make sure to deliver it to him personally. I don't want it winding up in the wrong hands."

"And by wrong hands you mean my mom?" Clarke snapped.

"Clarke…" he said almost softly. "You know Abby would just send an army after us. The last thing we want is another World War."

"My mom is more trustworthy than Kane." she grounded out.

"Your mom _lied_ to you, Clarke. She lied to you your entire life."

Clarke sucked in a hot and heavy breath, her fists clenching at her sides. Her cool, blue eyes hardened like lava over water. This time, Bellamy had taken it way too far. How dare he speak of her mom like he actually understood her? How dare he say that when he knew nothing about her family?

In the midst of their stare down, Echo cleared her throat, breaking whatever hold they had on one another. "I'll make sure he gets the letter. And I'll make sure that this Abby knows that her little lark is alive and well."

"Thank you." Bellamy grumbled.

Echo slipped out the door as stealthily a cat and as quiet as a mouse. Clarke never even heard the door shut, but she knew that the Grounder had closed it. When she was certain that she had left, Clarke unleashed her anger onto Bellamy.

"How. Dare. You." she snarled at him, drawing out each word slowly, deliberately.

"Princess…"

"Don't _Princess _me," Clarke spat. "You have no idea. You have no idea why my mom did the things she did!"

Bellamy stood up out of the chair.

"I – I…" she began, her voice gradually turning to mush. "She thought she was protecting me…"

Clarke ran a quavering hand through her messy, blonde hair. The adrenaline was quickly seeping through her pores and all her strength was leaving her body. She closed her eyes hoping for darkness, but all she saw was red – the color of blood, anger and passion. Suddenly, the room became suffocating and stifling all at once.

"We all do terrible things to protect those we love. I understand that," Bellamy said. "But Abby leads too much with her heart, especially when it comes to _you_."

Clarke was about to open her mouth when he interrupted her, when he began to take slow, measured steps towards her.

"Speaking of which," he smiled, stopping in front of her and crossing his arms. "What compelled you to make a grand entrance through my window? You do realize that there's this really great invention called a door…"

"You're such a dick." Clarke growled, her voice dripping with malice. "I thought you were dead! The last time I saw you – you couldn't even _speak_, let alone make your smartass remarks."

"Princess, I'm fine," he replied calmly. "According to you, if I wasn't okay I wouldn't be making smartass remarks."

Clarke paused for a moment before choosing to ignore him.

"Who redressed the wound?" she demanded, taking a step forwards to touch the fresh bandage. The fabric was unfamiliar. In fact, it appeared to be made of fauna rather than cloth.

_Interesting_, she thought.

Clarke lightly ran a finger across Bellamy's damaged skin, wanting to understand how the broken flesh had mended so quickly. When she had last seen him, his injury had been festering. Now, it was almost completely healed.

"Her English wasn't very good, but I heard the other Grounders calling her a water woman," Bellamy said, his voice strangely husky. "I don't remember much, I passed out after she gave me some medicinal herb. I think she might've mentioned that she was second in command to someone named Luna."

"The water people…" Clarke muttered, her hands still roving across Bellamy's skin.

He caught her blistered and bruised hands against his abdomen. Clarke hissed in pain as hot pinpricks traveled up her arm. For those brief minutes, she had almost forgotten her dangerous decent down to Bellamy's room.

"What happened to your hands?" he asked softly, the pad of his thumb caressing the torn skin – his fingers strangely cool.

"When I was climbing down… I don't know. I must've done it on the bricks." she murmured, her voice fluctuating.

Bellamy grumbled and it was a sound that resonated deep in his chest. He certainly didn't look happy about the fact that Clarke had hurt herself. His fingers kept roaming her skin, his face furrowed in thought.

"Come here," he ordered, taking her hand and gently entwining their fingers. "I think the water Grounder left some salve in the bathroom."


	17. Stolen Kisses

Clarke was instructed to sit still and behave herself – an order that, not surprisingly, did not bode well with her stalwart personality. She had protested all the way to the bathroom, telling Bellamy that she didn't need help, that she could fix her damn hands herself. After all, if it was one thing she hated more than anything else, it would have to be showing weakness.

Clarke didn't do vulnerability – vulnerability led to trust and trust led to betrayal.

"Bellamy –" she grumbled after he had set her down on the granite countertop. "I don't want your help."

"I'm sorry, did you say something?" he asked with a voice steeped in all seriousness. He was bent over, rummaging through cabinets and drawers looking for supplies. Clarke was about to snap at him for aggravating a freshly bandaged wound when he suddenly stood up, holding medical provisions in his hands.

He set them on the counter beside Clarke. They were primitive at best and she wasn't familiar with any of the lotions or fauna. She picked up a bottle of a jarred substance, opened it and sniffed it experimentally.

"Holy sh – this stuff is disgusting," she said, wrinkling her nose and setting it back down. "This is what she dressed your wound with?"

"Yeah, I smelled like it too," Bellamy replied. He took her hands into his own, studying the scratches and deep gashes. By now, they were mostly crusted over with blood. She was almost embarrassed having him look at them. "Tell me again why you thought it would be a good idea to scale the side of a building?"

Clarke watched as he picked up a bottle of rubbing alcohol and poured the contents onto a clean rag. She waited until he actually began to clean the blood and dirt off her hands before replying – wanting a distraction from the pain.

"I told you, I was worried about you." Clarke murmured reluctantly.

Bellamy raised an eyebrow, but didn't look up at her.

` "I never thought I would live to see the day," he began lightly; rubbing small, gentle circles across the tops of her hands. "After you sent me into Mount Weather, I assumed you didn't care whether I lived or died."

"That's bullshit and you know it." Clarke immediately spat.

"Really?" he asked, dropping the cloth onto the counter and reaching for a new one. "Because it didn't sound like bullshit at the time. All that love and weakness crap, you got that from Lexa didn't you?"

Clarke was silent.

"The Grounders don't _understand _that word, Clarke." Bellamy pointed out, continuing to clean her broken and dead skin. It was an odd feeling, having him touch her so delicately. Even when he had kissed her, he had been so incredibly gentle. However, from what Clarke had overheard from other girls, Bellamy was anything _but_ gentle.

"There are different forms of love." she replied quietly.

He didn't say anything to that, but Clarke knew that he understood what she meant. She remembered all those times that he had fought by her side, stood up for her, argued and bickered with her. Bellamy helped her realize the meaning of compromise and what it meant to listen to one's people.

"You're going to have to rub harder than that if you actually want to clean the cuts." she told him, wanting to end the awkward silence.

"You sure about that?" he prodded.

"I helped my mom with plenty of – ow!" Clarke pulled her hand back in pain. He had done what she had told him to do, but she hadn't expected it right then. She scowled at him.

"That's what happens when you want me to rub harder." Bellamy said in a playful, yet strangely deep voice. Something inside Clarke sparked and, suddenly, she didn't want him to be gentle anymore.

She studied his thick, inky curls as he hung his head and finished with her hands. Clarke's eyes traveled from the nape of his neck, to his broad shoulders and naked stomach. Biting her lip, she chastised herself for wanting something she could never have. He probably didn't even want her – not in the way that she wanted him.

After all, the first time Bellamy had kissed her, he had been flat out drunk. The second time, he was just relieved to see her alive and breathing.

However, try as she might, Clarke couldn't deny the fact that she had liked it. She now understood why everyone loved kissing Bellamy Blake – he was unbelievably good at it.

He finished wrapping her hands with some left over salve. He couldn't wrap her fingers completely though because she would lose all mobility of her hands. They didn't have the proper bandages here and Clarke was frustrated that she didn't bring her own.

Taking one last look, Bellamy nodded in approval. "Pretty damn good if I do say so myself." he said smiling.

She lifted her hands to her face. They still hurt like hell, but at least now they were covered. She had to admit that it wasn't half bad – the cleanup process could've been a little better. Clarke set her hands down and looked up at Bellamy. Even with her sitting on the counter, she was still shorter than him.

"I wouldn't get ahead of yourself if I were you," she warned. "You're no medical genius."

That cracked a smile.

Bellamy leaned his hip against the counter and crossed his arms, smirking lazily. "Oh come on, Clarke," he said, raising a suggestive brow. "I'm a genius at many things."

She stared at him a moment before flicking her hair over her shoulder. Bellamy's eyes immediately traveled to her neck and he frowned. He stood up and, once more, came to stand in front of her.

"Dammit," Bellamy rumbled. "She nicked you."

He came forward and took Clarke's face into his hands, his skin calloused and strong. Tilting her head so he could get a better look, Bellamy softly ran his thumb across the cut. Clarke could scarcely breathe. His lips were inches away from her neck and she tried not to shiver.

"How bad is it?" she whispered.

"Just a scratch." he muttered.

Bellamy was pressing against her knees, so she moved her legs outwards next to his sides. Unprepared, he fell forward slightly and Clarke put up a hand to slow him. He was inches away from her and she could smell his earthly scent of pine and sweat. He, too, had still not taken a shower since arriving here.

"If you're going to clean it, do it properly…" she murmured next to ear, leaning forwards ever so slightly.

"Like rubbing it harder?" he asked, his hands traveling down from her neck – lower and lower and lower.

"Yes –" Clarke replied, reaching up and wrapping her arms around him. Bellamy pulled her towards him until she was flush up against his chest. Ducking his head, he slowly began to kiss her neck. She tilted her head, wanting to feel his lips upon her hot skin.

"Bell…" she breathed as his hands slipped under her shirt and splayed against her stomach. Her legs came up and wrapped around his hips. Bellamy began to kiss her skin deeper and harder, traveling lower and lower with every breath.

"Say that again," he whispered against her body. "My name…"

"Bellamy –"

"No, not that one." he muttered. His lips traveled to the swell of her breasts and Clarke let out a soft, unexpected exhalation.

"Bell." she said, her voice sounding light. She was frustrated that she could do so little with hands – she wanted to feel him, touch him like he was touching her.

He was exploring her body with his hands and lips. And it was as if he wanted to commit her to memory – the feeling of her against him. Not once did he kiss her lips. Bellamy only touched, only tasted at an excruciating slow pace.

"You're beautiful, Clarke…" he murmured against her temple, his hands running through her hair – she loved the feeling.

She lost track of time after that. She had no idea how long they stayed in that bathroom or for how long Bellamy kissed her. It was only when there was a loud thumping at the door that he broke away from Clarke.

He pressed his forehead against hers and whispered, "Stay here."


	18. Bathroom Floors

The moment Bellamy left was the moment that all warmth left Clarke's body. She immediately missed his hands, his heat – his quiet strength that quelled her tumultuous soul. Bellamy's own spirit was a battered and beaten thing, but it had matured since their time on Earth. In some ways, Clarke had shaped his spirit. She wanted it back now. She wanted it close to her own. And, more than anything else, she wanted him to come back and kiss her – kiss her and never stop.

Clarke leapt off the counter and moved to stand by the door, careful to stay out of sight. Hearing Bellamy open the door, she pressed herself to the wall and waited with bated breath.

"Can I help you?" Bellamy asked in an utterly disinterested tone of voice. Clarke could picture him now, leaning up against the doorframe, shirtless and brooding.

"Where is she?" snapped a strong female voice. It was thickly accented and deep – familiar.

"Who?"  
The Grounder woman snarled like a rabid dog. "The _girl_, the one who leads the Skypeople."

"You're looking at their leader." Bellamy replied in a nonchalant tone.

Clarke nearly scoffed out loud. The Grounders didn't find sarcasm funny – they found it insulting. She was certain they had lost their sense of humor the moment they began to form new civilizations. Clarke didn't blame them. Life after the bombs must have been difficult.

She herself had lost that essential temperament, essential mindset. It was arduous, laughing in times of great tragedy. No one but Bellamy could seem to make her laugh.

"_Men don't lead_. You're too consumed by passion. It was unbridled rage that burned down the world," the woman exclaimed, her voice dangerously low. "Now, where is the girl? The coalition begins today."

"You know, a simple _please_ might be nice. But, before you ask again, no I don't know where Clarke is," Bellamy started. "And, by the way, I've been told that my passion –"

"Then you wouldn't mind me searching your room." the Grounder interrupted. Her heavy footsteps could be heard traveling against the hardwood. She had shoved her way into Bellamy's room.

_Shit_.

Clarke surveyed the bathroom, desperate for somewhere to hide.

"Haven't you Grounders ever heard of invasion of privacy?" Bellamy asked sounding slightly nervous as he followed her footsteps. Clarke took a deep breath. She didn't have much longer.

Quickly opening a cabinet below the sink, Clarke found a space to possibly squeeze herself into. It was the length and depth of the countertop above.

"Privacy is an illusion. There is no such thing." The Grounder woman retorted, still walking around the bedroom.

Clarke realized she didn't have much of a choice when it came to hiding spots. She ducked down under the counter, bringing her legs in first then her torso. Stretching her limbs out as far as the space would allow, she wiggled and squirmed until she fit completely. Seconds before Clarke heard footsteps on tile, the cabinet door was hurriedly shut.

"I wouldn't if I were you…" Bellamy began, but it was too late, she had already ventured into the bathroom.

Clarke shut her eyes. She didn't believe in God, but if she did she would've prayed. It would mean Bellamy's life if they found her in his room with him. They would take him away from her. If Clarke wanted to gain Lexa's trust, if she wanted to re-strengthen the alliance with the Forest Nation, she would have to abide by their wishes.

"What is all this?" the Grounder asked.

Clarke's eyes burst open – she knew that voice. It was Indra. The voice belonged to Indra.

"How else was I supposed to redress my wound?" Bellamy reasoned, answering a question with a question.

"This salve and ointment belong to the water people." Indra stated. She didn't sound too happy about the fact.

Bellamy must have shrugged when he said, "It was here when I found it. I have no idea who the water people even are."

"Was she here? This is too much for one person? Was she here? Did you treat her?" Indra was becoming agitated. It was obvious to her that Clarke wasn't in the room when, clearly, she had expected to find her here.

"Like I said, Clarke isn't here." Bellamy replied calmly.

Indra growled and spat into the sink. Clarke heard it as she lay curled in a ball beneath the counter.

"I'm going to find her," she warned. "And if I find out that you knew where she was… you're a dead man, Blake."

Bellamy said nothing as Indra stormed out of the bathroom, her footfalls falling hard and fast as she exited. The front door opened and she added, "You're love for her will get you both killed."

The door slammed and silence filled the room.

Clarke stayed where she was until she heard Bellamy's voice. "Clarke? I know you're in here."

She pushed open the cabinet door, hitting Bellamy's legs. Clarke craned her neck and smiled up at him while he looked down in surprise.

"Damn, Clarke," he chuckled. "That's quite an accomplishment."

"Shut up," she countered and then mumbled, "I think I'm stuck."

Bellamy bent down and Clarke grabbed his shoulders. She managed to twist her torso out, but had a harder time with her legs. There was a big wooden support in the way. She grumbled in annoyance. Of all the places to get stuck, she just had to get caught in a cabinet under a smelly sink.

"You're going to have to rotate your hips towards me. You won't be able to get out while you're on your side." Bellamy pointed out.

Clarke scowled at him, but did as he said. The sooner she was out of this embarrassing situation, the better.

"I'm going to pull you out," Bellamy explained and, as a response, Clarke gripped his shoulders even tighter. "In one, two, three…"

She tumbled out from underneath the sink, the force of Bellamy's tug making both of them fall backwards onto the tile. Clarke fell onto his chest and he fell onto his back. She let out a strew of curses, an ache forming immediately on the outside of her hipbone. Looking down at him, she frowned.

"I think you should get stuck under sinks more often." Bellamy grinned.

Clarke slapped his shoulder. "You wish."

Bellamy sat up with Clarke still on top of him. Now, she was sitting in his lap, her legs on either side of his hips. Instead of looking at him, she reached down and lifted up her shirt. The skin on top of her hipbone was red, not bleeding, just red. She moaned.

_Fantastic_ – another scrape to add to the list.

"Hurt yourself again, Princess?" Bellamy murmured, raising his hand to stroke her cheek, his thumbs rubbing gentle circles into her skin.

"Yeah, thanks to you." Clarke muttered, pulling her shirt back down.

His other hand came to her hip and slipped underneath her shirt as his lips kissed the underside of her jaw. "I think we can fix that," he whispered, his breath tickling her neck.

Clarke's bandaged hands, frustratingly useless, came up and wrapped around Bellamy's own neck. She pressed against him as Bellamy picked up where they left off.

"I can't be fixed, Bell." she whispered against his ear, her tone longing and sad. She lowered the side of her head against his shoulder. It was at that moment Bellamy began to draw soothing shapes across her back.

"Anything can be mended. Time heals, people heal, you should know that." he replied, kissing her temple.

"All I know is death – that's all I see, when I dream, that's all I see," Clarke was slowly becoming more and more morose. "I see them screaming at me, blaming me…"

"Shh…" Bellamy soothed, playing with her hair.

"My dad, Wells, Finn, the people in Mount Weather… They're all dead because of me." she choked.

He pulled Clarke closer and cradled her head to his chest. "That's the last thing you need to be thinking about right now."

"But that's _all _I think about."

"Not now, not when you need to be thinking about _saving _our people," Bellamy said gently as Clarke clung to him on the bathroom floor. "Right now, we have a meeting to get to and a race to save."


	19. Jealousy

Bellamy could tell that Clarke was feeling nervous. He noticed it in the biting of her lip, the clenching of her fingers. Every now and again, he caught her wiping her sweaty palms on her pants.

However, Clarke didn't say anything about it to him. She didn't say that she was nervous or scared. In fact, if Bellamy had not known Clarke, he would've said she looked confident, resolute. It was the small things that singled her uncertainty.

Before they stepped into the repurposed sitting room, Bellamy reached out and grabbed Clarke's hand. He didn't mind that her skin was clammy. He didn't mind because his was too.

She stopped in her tracks, turning around to look up at him. Her face softened for a fraction of a second before hardening once more. Bellamy squeezed her hand, wanting to somehow convey his understanding without words. A simple touch could express more emotion than any language ever could.

"Don't worry," he said softly. "We're in this together – always."

"Who says I'm worried?" She asked, though it was posed more as a statement than a question.

Bellamy ducked down and kissed her cheek, his lips lingers on her skin. "Brave Princess." Bellamy chuckled.

"Don't call me that." Clarke hissed, pulling away slightly. Her hands, however, were gripping either side of his jacket as if to conceal their shaking. It was times like these when one leader was the anchor to the other and, right now, it was his job to keep Clarke moored.

And, although she had a frown on her face, Bellamy still thought she was the most beautiful girl in existence – even with mud and leaves in her hair.

Bellamy smiled down at her, a smile complete with adoration and admiration. He had never known a girl quite like Clarke Griffin.

"You ready to go in?" He asked.

Clarke's hands slowly let go of his jacket and slipped down his chest. "Yes," was her immediate response.

Bellamy placed a hand on her lower back and guided her towards the entryway. Just before they turned into the room, Clarke straightened her shoulders and walked away from him. She entered the room before he did and didn't look back to see if he was behind her.

When Bellamy followed her in, he straightaway came into a space crowded with Grounders. The noise was deafening and the smell was even worse. He stayed close to Clarke's side not wanting to lose her in the swell of bodies.

"Ah, Clarke," said Lexa, approaching her and Bellamy from a few feet away. "I thought you decided to desert us at the last minute."

"I never back down on my word… unlike _some_ people." Clarke spat.

The Commander cocked her head to the side, smiling at her curiously. Bellamy caught the light in her eyes, the widening of her pupils. Obviously, she found Clarke's tone amusing.

"Then where were you? You weren't in your room. You weren't in the streets…" Lexa went on, her hand hovering over the hilt of her dagger. She was dressed differently, in brighter and finer leathers.

"I –" Clarke started.

"She was in the kitchens. I asked her to bring me some whiskey." Bellamy intervened on her behalf, taking a step closer to Clarke.

Lexa turned her attention to him. Now, because she was no longer staring at Clarke, all regard slowly drained from her eyes. Once more, her face darkened. "Really? Why on Earth would she run errands for _you_?"

Was that jealously he detected in her voice?

"He was hurt," Clarke replied, laying a hand on his arm and Bellamy was certain she did it unconsciously. "I needed it to clean his wound."

Lexa's brows furrowed at the sight of her touching him. "Yes, I remember – my men shot you with an arrow," she was looking at Bellamy before turning back to Clarke. "You should've sent for one of my healers, Clarke."

Bellamy caught the hurt in Lexa's face, the pain. It was at that moment that he wanted to try something, to test an idea that he had.

He reached out and tucked a stray strand of golden blonde hair behind Clarke's ear, his fingers trailing softly along her skin. "Clarke is a great doctor. She doesn't need anyone to do the job for her."

Lexa scowled, her cheeks turning red. Meanwhile, Clarke stood frozen in place. She looked up at Bellamy and shook her head. He dropped his hand immediately.

He was right, Lexa _was_ jealous. That's why she separated the two of them, put them in different rooms.

"Right, I should've known," she began tersely. "Anyways, we're about to leave for the capital building. That's where the coalition will be held and where you'll meet the other Skypeople."

It was then that Lexa vanished into the crowd, disappearing from sight and mind until she reappeared moments later standing atop a table.

"Women and men!" she yelled. The room quickly descended into silence, every Grounder turning towards her. "Let us make haste towards resolution. These next few days will open old wounds and kindle archaic flames. But as you all know, pain must be inflicted before healing can begin."

"There is a new enemy to be had. It is neither the Skypeople nor one of our tribes. It is an old foe, a foe from before the time of the bomb dropping," Lexa shouted. "Now my fellow warriors, is the time to form alliances because _we _will _never_ be subdued!"

The Grounders tossed their fists into the air, cheering and shouting. It wasn't just the forest ones, but a whole accumulation of different tribes. Bellamy only recognized the forest and water Grounders. The rest were unknown to him.

The entire brick building shook with their voices. It could be felt even through the floorboards. It was an unsettling sound – uncontrolled and untamed.

Amongst the chaos, a hand found his. Soft fingers gently brushed his palm open before entwining together completely. Startled, Bellamy gazed down at Clarke, thinking that she wanted to talk to him. Only, she was staring stonily ahead.

Bellamy gave her hand two firm squeezes, a silent reassurance. He noticed the corner of her mouth quirk upwards. And at that moment, he wanted nothing more than to kiss her hesitation away, to care for her just as she had cared for him. Clarke was stronger than anyone he had ever known, but she was only human.

Amidst the pandemonium, no one saw their entwined hands. No one saw how Bellamy gazed longingly down at Clarke.

Soon, all of the Grounders were pushing and shoving their way out of the stone house. Every single one of them was headed to the capital building.

"Come on, Clarke." Bellamy said, tugging on her hand. And she let him lead her out the front door.

"Let's just get this over with," she replied through gritted teeth. "The sooner we do, the sooner we can go home."

"I have a feeling it isn't going to be that simple." He mumbled.


	20. Shock Value

The noise from within the large capital building was deafening. It echoed off the walls in a constant and persistent symphony. The dictating, decreeing, demanding voices carried an almost musical cadence with various Grounder tribes speaking various forms of Trigedasleng.

As far as Clarke could tell, the other Skypeople factions would be the last to arrive.

Bellamy and Clarke were seated with the Forest Nation, front and center for all to see. They were lucky to have seats at all. It appeared as though many of the chairs and benches had been destroyed. The building itself, while mostly intact, still held significant damage. However, the architecture remained grand and archaic, capturing Clarke's fascination.

Leaning backwards, Bellamy draped an arm across the back of Clarke's chair. "Sure beats the Ark's meeting hall."

Clarke glanced over at him, cracking a smile. "Everything about this place beats the Ark."

"No, not true," he replied, inclining his head towards hers as if he was about to tell Clarke some big secret. "The Ark had soccer."

"Soccer?"

"Yeah, I heard your Dad was quite the fan." He exclaimed, leaning back and away from her.

Suddenly, Clarke found her bandaged hands rather interesting.

"We used to watch it together, me and him," Clarke said. Then, she laughed, thinking of them together on the couch, talking to the television screen. "Dad loved to bet. He loved it a little too much…"

Bellamy was silent for a moment and Clarke felt his gaze on her, his comforting presence enveloping her. Soccer brought back many memories of her Dad, good _and_ bad. She missed him more than anything.

Clarke felt a hand brush her shoulder and she looked over at Bellamy. For once, the smile on his face was full of compassion.

"You would've liked him," she whispered. "And I think he would've liked you."

Before Bellamy could open his mouth, trumpets blared. The Grounders surrounding Bellamy and Clarke instructed them to stand. They did as they were told and turned towards the doors. Clarke would have given anything for her gun right then. She felt naked without it.

Lexa was leading a group of Grounder leaders to the dais. The variations of ceremonial garb were astonishing and beautiful. Each tribe wore different clothes, wore their hair in different styles. Most of the Grounders were women. There were very few men. Clarke thought that the water Grounders looked the most striking with long cloaks and dresses composed of blue fauna.

The trumpets played until ever leader was seated. Then, suddenly, they stopped and a different tune began to play.

Once more, the massive front door swung wide open. Only this time, the Skypeople strode in and Clarke's breath caught in her throat.

They weren't dressed as Bellamy and Clarke were dressed. And they weren't dressed like the Grounders either. Not even the people from Mount Weather could be compared to the Skypeople who were now standing at the front door.

Clarke had never before seen such colorful fabrics, such beautiful faces. The men were wearing suits of every variation – grey, black, stripped, pink, blue. The few women that were present wore long gowns crafted out of chiffon and silk. Some wore ball gowns while others wore silky, body hugging dresses. Each one was dripping with precious stone necklaces and bracelets.

Clarke glanced over at Bellamy the same time he looked down at her. She was in utter disbelief. Where had these people come from? They certainly hadn't been here through the bombing, but there skin was tanned as though they had spent years in the sun.

"My people, I present to you the Leaders from Before – men and women who fell from the sky long before the Ark did." Lexa's voice carried far and wide in the domed building.

It was then that the other Skypeople began to move forwards toward the dais. There were no more chairs on the platform, only the empty seats beside Clarke.

"This is going to be one hell of an introduction." Bellamy muttered in her ear.

Clarke tilted her head towards him. "I don't understand. Why do they look like that? I recognize some of their faces, but I don't remember where from."

"I know," Bellamy agreed. "They _definitely_ don't look like the Grounders or Mountain Men."

As they rounded the bend, nearly every single one of them looked Bellamy and Clarke up and down. Some whispered, others laughed. At one point, Bellamy had to hold Clarke back from punching one of the girls.

When it was finally acceptable for them to sit back down, Clarke found herself seated next to a man in a light pink, almost white suit. He was young, probably mid to late thirties with light blonde and blue eyes.

"Guten tag," he said to Clarke in a thickly accented voice, nodding in her direction.

She was speechless. A person from space with an accent? And was he speaking German? People from the Ark didn't have accents. In fact, they all spoke English.

Her face must have been comical because the man reached out a hand, chuckling.

"Forgive me," he apologized. "My name is Leon Lehner, bygone president of Austria."

President of Austria? Austria was destroyed in the war. Everything was destroyed in the war. Countries were disbanded, alliances destroyed. And that was nearly a hundred years ago. This man should be long dead.

Clarke reached out, hesitant at first, and shook his hand. "Clarke Griffin of –"

"I know who you are."

She pulled back her hand. Leon was either crazy or Clarke was losing her mind. So, being the rational person that she was, she settled on the former and kept her mouth shut.

"Warriors, leaders," Lexa began. "There are some of you who don't know about the Skypeople sitting in front of you."

The Commander stepped down from the dais and started to walk back and forth in front of the crowd. There was not a sound to be heard except for the strong tenor of her voice.

"They are the leaders from before the war, dignitaries, presidents, chancellors, kings and queens. All of them escaped to the sky after the first bombs were dropped."

Clarke opened her mouth before she consciously realized that she was interrupting Lexa. "Then they would've been on the Ark. After a few decades, all the space stations orbiting Earth joined together."

A woman wearing a black, silk dress stood up a few seats down from Bellamy and Clarke. She had dark, almond shaped eyes and jet black hair styled in a bun on top her head.

"Many of us chose not to." She explained, her voice was also accented and very soft sounding.

"But why not?" Clarke asked.

The woman looked down at her peers. "Because," she began. "In order to conserve our culture and knowledge, in order to preserve our bloodlines, we put ourselves in cryosleep."

"You what?" Bellamy nearly choked.

"She means," Clarke explained, trying to reason out the situation. "They put themselves into a hypothermic state, kind of like a hibernation of sorts."

"But I still don't understand," she went on. "The science at the time was still in development. I read about it in the archives. The human body couldn't survive for more than two years."

"It's amazing what a little money and power can do." The woman in black said quietly before sitting back down.

Clarke could tell that she wasn't telling the whole story. They were hiding something, they all were.

Bellamy leaned over and whispered in her ear, "They're all crazy, Clarke. There's no way…"

"Shh!" Clarke said, "Did you hear that?

"Hear what?"

She cocked her ear. It sounded like a thunder, a distant, rolling thunder. Rain? It couldn't be. If not thunder, than television static, but that wouldn't make sense either.

"I have asked you all here today because an old threat has once again made itself known…" Lexa explained, returning to her seat on the dais.

The buzzing noise grew louder.

"The intelligence that started the war has resurfaced not far from here –"

Still, the buzzing noise grew louder and louder and _louder_.

"A computerized intelligence, a woman named Ali…"

The front doors of the capital building flew open and a Grounder woman rushed inside, out of breath and out of sorts. "Commander, there is a missile –"

"Clarke!" Bellamy shouted, pulling her to her feet. "Run, Clarke!"

The sound of thunder and rain was now fully upon them. People and Grounders alike began to scream and shout, issuing orders and commands. A mass panic ensued.

Bellamy sprinted towards a side door, dragging Clarke behind him. She turned around to look back at the deafening chaos. Why was no one running for safety? Was this some sick and twisted dream? Why –?

The missile crashed into the capital building with a loud, thunderous boom.

Bellamy crashed into Clarke, grabbing her by the waist with one arm and cradling her head with the other. He sent them sailing halfway out the door just as the entire building shook and went up in a flare of smoke.

Together, they landed hard on the stone floor, Bellamy covering her body with his.

The cacophony of bursting, crumbling stone was incredible. Clarke wanted to cover her ears, but Bellamy's body was pinning her firmly to the ground. His hand was holding her head and she felt his breath on the back of her neck, felt the slow pounding of his heart.

"Oh my God," Clarke muttered into his shoulder.

Her entire body was shaking. This was a nightmare, a true and complete nightmare.

"Bellamy," she said, her voice fluctuating. "Bellamy, I need you to get off –"

Clarke only gently shoved him, not expecting him to move, but he rolled off her easily – like a corpse.

"Bellamy!" She screamed, scrambling to her knees.

He lay on his side. His face was white, his breathing shallow. Clarke laid a hand on his shoulder, speaking to him in soft, persistent tones. He gave no sign of being able to hear her. Blood had pooled from underneath his body, smearing across the marble floors.

For a moment, Clarke could only stare. She stared until her eyes drifted to his back. It was shredded, shredded by rock and metal. The stone had cut through his shoulder blades and spine, flaying soft and supple skin. His skin swam with blood.

"Bell," Clarke whispered, feeling very dizzy all of the sudden.

Her head hurt. And like an annoying child, the throbbing pain wouldn't stop. A headache?

Clarke raised a hand and touched her temple – and felt her hair thick with blood, the side of her face thick with blood. Her fingertips brushed a ragged flap of torn skin. A sudden bolt of pain shot through her forehead and into the back of her head.

And that was it. Already weak from blood loss and dizzy from repeated shock, Clarke's body and mind crumpled. She barely remembered falling to the floor beside Bellamy. She barely remembered reaching for his hand as darkness consumed her.


	21. Finding Light

Consciousness came and went in an almost hypnotic rhythm, like the steady cycle of waves hitting a shoreline. Clarke knew she was lying in a large bed with thick sheets and a soft mattress. She knew she was in a very exquisite room, not the room that she had spent last night in, but a nicer one, a grander one. It was bright, so incredibly bright with high windows bringing in the light of dawn.

She closed her eyes against it and the darkness – once more – consumed her.

. . .

Clarke woke to whispering voices and unfamiliar faces. There were at least three of them hovering around her bed, one male and two female. Their features were blurry and no matter how hard Clarke squinted, they wouldn't come into focus.

"Why is she still like this? She's delirious." Asked one of the girls, her voice was young and heavily accented.

"The mechanical tracers came back with positive results. They show no sign of brain damage," replied the male as he pulled out a light blue tablet. He sounded familiar – foreign. "The skin graph went on seamlessly."

Clarke tried to lift her head, but it felt as heavy as an iron block. And, try as she might, coherent words would not leave her lips. She felt drugged. They must have drugged her.

In this state, she felt helpless – completely helpless.

"Darling," the other woman said, laying a hand on the man's arm. "I had the servants put something in her tea. Emilia said she was crying out in her sleep."

"It was the worst," the younger girl replied. "She kept screaming and sweating in the sheets. She must have called out for that boy about a million times."

_Bellamy_.

Clarke needed to find him before something happened to him. The last thing she remembered was him bleeding out on the pavement, his back bloodied with stone and metal. She _couldn't_ lose him. She couldn't lose another person she cared deeply for.

"I can only imagine the horrors she has seen, _arme kleine ding_…" the woman murmured, touching Clarke's face lightly. Her hands smelled of sandalwood.

"Emilia," said the man. "I want you here when she wakes up. I'll send someone up to help you."

"But, father –"

"_Nein_," he said, his voice firm and authoritative. "_Sie tun was man dir sagt_."

Slowly, the darkness returned and Clarke fell into it, imagining Bellamy, imagining how she was going to rescue him. She was grateful for the respite from thought and light. Like a warm and comforting blanket, Clarke wrapped herself in the blackness.

. . .

The next time Clarke awoke, she was much more coherent, the world finally coming into focus. She sat up against mounds of pillows and allowed her eyes to adjust to the darkness. It was no longer day time. She must've been asleep all day.

Clarke swung her legs out of bed just as the lights in the room turned on. She barely had time to stifle a scream as she turned around and noticed a girl standing in the corner. Her hands immediately went to her gun, only, Clarke didn't have one with her.

"It's alright, Clarke," the girl said. She was probably around fourteen or fifteen years old with braided blonde hair. "I'm here to help you."

She was the same girl from before. Clarke recognized her voice.

"How do you know my name?" She demanded, taking a few steps back, studying the girl in silk pajamas.

"My father brought you in. He told us your name," she replied. "You and your friend were badly wounded."

"My friend? Bellamy? Do you know where he is?" Clarke asked eagerly.

Bellamy – he was here, she felt it in her bones. She needed to see him. She needed assurance that he was okay.

"He's been treated, but his wounds were far more life threatening than yours. His recovery will be longer." The girl said, taking cautious steps towards Clarke.

"I want to see him. _Now_." She started to make her way to the bedroom door, but the younger girl blocked her path, refusing to let Clarke through.

"You need to wash up first. You look like you haven't seen soap in months."

Clarke gave the blonde a hard, seething look.

She ducked her head, blushing. "I'm sorry, that was rude, but my father ordered it and my mother insisted. They said guests shouldn't be walking around looking like Grounders, that the staff might get the wrong idea."

Clarke worked her bottom lip in contemplation. If she wanted to find Bellamy, she would have to follow their rules – as much as it pained her ego to admit. She couldn't risk unruly behavior when Bellamy was under these strangers' care.

At Clarke's apparent compliance, the girl reached down and grabbed a bundle of toiletries, handing them to her.

"My name is Emilia," she explained. "The bathroom is around that corner and there are clothes in the wardrobe."

"Thanks," Clarke mumbled, taking the bundle from Emilia's arms. Before she turned the corner into the bathroom, Clarke glanced over her shoulder, a curious thought popping into her head. "What's your last name, Emilia?"

The girl in the silk pajamas froze with her hand on the bedroom door handle. "Lehner," she replied, looking back at Clarke. "Emilia Maria Lehner of Austria."

Clarke nearly dropped everything she was carrying.

Emilia was the daughter of _Leon Lehner_ – the man who Clarke had sat next to in the capital building. He had been there when the missile exploded.

His daughter, now standing before the bedroom door, nodded and slipped out of the room, leaving Clarke alone in isolation.

. . .

When Clarke stepped out of the bathroom after a long, hot shower, she felt like an entirely different person. The water had washed off more than dirt. And, for the first time in a long time, Clarke's hands were finally clean.

Walking over to the wardrobe, she opened the wooden doors and looked at clothes she had to choose from. Bright fabrics, unique styles, beautiful shoes – they were all too much for Clarke to handle.

It was Mount Weather all over again.

Eventually, she donned the simplest outfit she could find – jeans, a white top and sneakers. She fixed her newly washed hair in the mirror, putting it up as she normally did. And, when Clarke looked at herself fully, she barely recognized the girl on the other side of the mirror.

Clarke dismissed the image of herself quickly. It was time to find Bellamy.

She sprinted to the bedroom door and threw it open. Immediately, she barreled into a male chest. Clarke squealed and jumped backwards.

"Shit!"

"And where do you think you're going, hmm?" Asked an accented voice, a voice that she had heard before.

Clarke looked up at the Austrian. He had his arms crossed and a dissatisfied look on his face. "Leon," she stammered. "I was just going to –"

"Going to look for you boyfriend?" He finished.

She scowled. "Bellamy isn't my boyfriend. He's my…"

Clarke couldn't find the word. Instead, she flicked her hair over her shoulder and shot Leon a disparaging look. "Look, it doesn't matter what he is to me. All that matters is that I see him alive – preferably now."

Smiling, Leon said, "Well, by the way he demanded to see _you_… he actually threatened me you know…" the Austrian man paused a moment. "I would say you two meant a lot to each other."

Clarke was at a loss for words. Her mouth was open, but no words came out.

"Come on," Leon chuckled. "He's waiting in the library."

Leon Lehner motioned for her to follow him and she did. Clarke followed him down the grand, illuminated hallways – lit with electricity not flame – and down a winding marble staircase. She wondered where they were. She wondered if this was nothing but a dream.

They walked mostly in silence. There were too many questions to ask and too little time. And besides, the only thing on Clarke's mind was seeing Bellamy _alive_.

Together, they rounded the corner. Down the hallway, Clarke noticed a pair of wooden oak doors sitting ajar. And more than that, she saw Bellamy pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace. He hadn't seen them yet.

Before she knew what she was doing, Clarke was sprinting, sprinting towards Bellamy. He was healthy, he was alive and healthy and _safe_. The last time she had seen him, he had been bleeding out on the pavement.

As he turned around at the last second, Clarke barreled into his chest. She buried her head in the crook of his neck, breathing him in. Her hand came up and gripped the back of his head, her fingers tangling in his hair.

"You're alive," she cried. "You're actually okay…"

Bellamy's arms went around her waist, strong and taut. He had to lean down slightly to embrace her. And Clarke felt his breath against the tip of her ear. She breathed him in, all of him. He smelled clean.

"I was going to kill him, Clarke," Bellamy murmured, rocking her side to side, hands running through her hair. "I thought something happened to you –"

"Bell, you saved my life." She whispered, pulling back slowly to look up at him. His eyes were open and _happy_.

"Hey," he smiled, lifting her chin. "You've saved my ass plenty of times. I was only repaying the favor."

Clarke slapped his shoulder.

Bellamy chuckled and kissed her forehead, his lip lingering. She closed her eyes and wrapped her arms tighter around him.

"Just friends I see?" Leon asked, entering the room and walking towards a wooden desk.

Clarke felt Bellamy's body tense. He watched Leon's every move like a cat watches a mouse.

"He saved us, Bellamy." Clarke said quietly.

"That's what I'm worried about," he muttered. "Why, why save _us_? He had no reason to unless he wanted something in return."

Clarke pulled away from Bellamy. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Ridiculous? I'm being _realistic_!" he said in a very loud whisper.

Leon Lehner cleared his throat and Bellamy and Clarke looked up at the exact same time. He was behind his desk, hands folded on the table. The expression on his face said it all. Clarke was fairly certain that he had heard their entire conversation.

"If you two wouldn't mind, I have work to do," he explained. "Clarke, I assume you know the way back to your room."

She nodded.

"Good. I'll talk to both of you in the morning." Leon said, not looking up at her as he was bending over a piece of paper on his desk.

Clarke took that as a dismissal and, together, her and Bellamy walked out of his study. The doors automatically shut behind them with a resounding thud. It was a frightening and almost solidifying sound.

She had the distinct feeling that they had just escaped from one prison only to be hurled into another.


	22. Declarations of Love

"I can't believe this," Clarke said walking into the bedroom. Bellamy followed closely behind and closed the door. "I can't believe that we're stuck in the same situation as we were in Mount Weather…"

"Clarke, the circumstances –"

"I don't even know where we are!" She practically yelled, getting more and more agitated by the moment. Clarke strode into the center of the room and began to pace. "And I have absolutely no idea how we got here…"

"Listen –" Bellamy started, but was once again cut off by her need to ventilate her emotions.

"Now my mom's going to worry and nobody is going to know where we've gone. And, _and_, we may or may not have gotten ourselves involved with another psychopath. Not only that, but have you seen the security cameras?"

Clarke sat herself down on a sofa situated in front of the bed and dropped her head into her hands. She let out a loud, frustrated groan. How could she have let this happen? Once more, they were playing a game of cat and mouse. It was a game she had played one too many times.

"I've screwed up, haven't I?" She added, looking up at Bellamy with moist eyes. "You should've just left me at Mount Weather when you had the chance."

Bellamy tilted his head and sat down beside Clarke, placing one hand on her knee. He was looking at her with an expression that conveyed his own guilt, his own regrets. Bellamy probably regretted taking her away from that damn mountain. He probably wanted nothing to do with her.

Clarke glanced away and down at her own hands. However, Bellamy immediately took her chin and gently forced her to look at him. She did so, noticing every freckle spattered across his nose and cheeks. She even noticed the faintest indication of light behind his amber eyes.

"Clarke," he began softly, his thumb brushing her jaw. "I would never, _ever_, abandon you like that. Do you understand? I would be a terrible man if I just left you out there letting guilt eat away at your soul."

"And you haven't screwed up. You couldn't have known what was going to happen." Bellamy pointed out. He brought his face closer and kissed her temple. His lips were soft, gentle.

And, as if magic had been wrought, all of Clarke's pain ebbed away – out of sight for the moment. Bellamy pulled back, his nearness comforting her mind and heart.

"How am I going to get us out of this?" She whispered, leaning her head on his shoulder. His hand came up and wrapped around her upper waist.

"Don't you mean how are _we _going to get out of here?" Bellamy asked, his arm tightening momentarily before loosening.

Clarke chuckled. "No, I mean me. I _am_ the backbone of this relationship after all."

Bellamy pulled back so he could look down at her. He cocked an eyebrow and smirked. "What relationship? I wasn't aware that I was in a relationship."

Clarke nudged his shoulder, blushing slightly. She hadn't meant for those words to come out like that, but Bellamy was staring at her with that stupid look on his face and she had to say _something_.

"Our partnership you idiot." Clarke clarified, stumbling on her words. Perhaps her heart was attempting to tell her something that her mind didn't know.

"Good to know where I stand." Bellamy said and she wasn't entirely certain whether he was joking or not.

An awkward silence descended then and Clarke rushed to fill the void, feeling utterly uncomfortable with Bellamy gazing at her with broken eyes.

"Where were you before Leon came? Do you remember?"

"Uh," Bellamy began, scooting away a couple inches and running a hand through his inky hair. "I think I was in an infirmary of sorts. I woke up in a room filled with beds and don't remember much about before or after I was brought there."

"Hmm, I woke up here, but I'm pretty sure they drugged me up good because I don't remember anything either." Clarke replied.

Bellamy only grunted and was completely unresponsive. Was he still hurting because of the things she had said about their relationship? That was odd for him. Normally, he didn't show emotion when it came to things like that.

Clarke cleared her throat and gripped the edge of the sofa. "Well, you look and smell clean. Were you able to take a shower?"

"No, I wasn't. I think they just scrubbed me with antibacterial stuff before pulling the metal out of my back. You know I haven't exactly had time to wash since I left Camp Jaha." He rubbed his neck as though it were sore.

"This bedroom has a shower and I think there are clothes in the wardrobe. You can take one here." She said, standing up.

"Yeah, I'll do that," he started, following her up. Bellamy walked towards the bathroom, but turned around at the last minute, his hand on the doorframe. "You should get some rest. Who knows when we'll be able to sleep in a bed that nice again."

Clarke didn't bother to tell him that she had slept the entire day. She didn't bother to tell him that she wasn't tired. However, she made herself walk over to the wardrobe and throw on a pair of flannel pants and shirt anyways.

Then, she crawled into bed wordlessly and shut her eyes. The one good thing about sleep was oblivion and oblivion consumed her right away.

. . .

Clarke awoke to the shifting of the mattress, warm breath against her forehead. Blinking open her eyes, she saw Bellamy's form in the darkness, shirtless and smelling of nighttime. He was gazing down at her. Clarke reached for him, wrapping an arm around his torso.

"Can't sleep?" She asked, her words laced with exhaustion.

"No," was immediate and firm reply. She opened her eyes even wider at the tone of his voice. It was low and somewhat angry sounding.

"Bell," Clarke said, pushing herself up onto her elbow, her brows furrowing. "Bell, what's wrong?"

Instinctively, she reached out and brushed his curls to the side. They were still slightly damp from his shower.

Bellamy lowered his eyelids, breathing in deeply as though he were going to admit some grand secret. "What am I to you, Clarke?"

"What are you talking about –?"

"Me, do you feeling anything about me?" He prodded, interrupting her mid-sentence.

As Clarke's eyes adjusted to the light, she noticed how pained, how tortured, his expression was. She paused for a moment, contemplating her next words carefully.

"I love you," she began slowly, testing the words in her mouth. "I care about you."

Bellamy's head fell back against the pillows. Running his down his face, he muttered under his breath. "But you don't love me love me, not in that way. You don't love me like I love you."

Clarke made a choking sound, a guttural and ugly noise of complete disbelief. She quickly sat up in bed. Words, his words tugged at her soul.

"You love me?" She whispered.

"Isn't it obvious?"

"No, yes, I mean – I thought you loved me like you love Octavia – like a sister." Clarke stumbled over her words. Images flashed through her mind like wildfire, images of her and Bellamy. She remembered everyone telling her that Bellamy loved her. Of course, she never believed any of them… until now.

Bellamy snorted and Clarke had her answer.

"I could never love Octavia in the way that I love you," he said, sitting up in bed alongside Clarke. "I've never loved anyone like I love you."

"Stop saying that, Bellamy." Clarke demanded, her voice soft.

Why was he telling her this? Why now? In the darkness, his face was full of longing. Shirtless and honest, Bellamy had never looked so beautiful. At that moment, Clarke decided that it was his candidness that enticed her heart – his vulnerability.

"What, _love_? How else would you like me to say it?" Bellamy's voice was rough and Clarke could see the nervousness in his expression.

Clarke's response was immediate. She leaned forwards and kissed Bellamy, her fingers reaching up into his hair. His own hands tightened around her shoulders as his chest rose sharply. Clarke felt his heart rate pick up – it matched her own.

He was kissing her tenderly, letting himself love her slowly, letting himself show his love rather than say it aloud.

Clarke sat up, her hands still on either side of Bellamy's face, and straddled him – sitting on his lap, the covers pooling around her waist. He joined her moments later, rising up off the pillows to meet her lips.

Clarke hadn't forgotten what a good kisser he was. She could taste it, feel it in the hands that roamed her body. And he had such beautiful hands – calloused and large, a pianist's fingers but an archer's strength. They were running down her back now, beneath her shirt, leaving goosebumps of pleasure wherever they traveled.

Wrapping her arms around his neck, Clarke's hands skimmed his skin as Bellamy gently bit her bottom lip at an excruciating slow pace. They kissed for what seemed like an eternity. They kissed until Clarke was breathless from the intensity of it all, pausing only to explore one another.

And, at some point, Bellamy and Clarke had lost their shirts as well as their hearts.

They were both warm and flushed, steam rolling off their bodies in waves. Bellamy had wrestled Clarke onto her back and was leaving kisses down her neck, kisses that would probably show in the morning.

Clarke's body arched against his and when she moaned, Bellamy hesitated for a fraction of a second.

"Clarke…" he murmured against her jaw, her cheek. "You're so beautiful…"

"I love you," she said, her breathing ragged. "I love you, Bellamy Blake."

"If you don't…tell me to stop and I will." His voice was rough and raw.

Reaching up, Clarke gripped his shoulders and flipped him over so that she was positioned on top of him. "Don't," she said – out of breath. "Don't ever stop, not now, not ever."

Bellamy's hands trembled as they settled on Clarke's hips, on the waistband of her pants. She helped him take them off, placing her hands on top of his as she guided him. A sense of unbridled power washed over her and it was exhilarating.

She had slept with Finn. Bellamy wasn't going to be her first, but she wanted him to be forever. And he was different.

Bellamy was so much more _alive_.

When his lips once again met Clarke's, a riptide of emotions erupted throughout her body. His taste was delicious and addictive, sensual and passionate. She pressed against him, their kisses deepening until Clarke was swimming in heady sensations. Every touch, every taste, was measured and precise.

Breathing became difficult as their kisses became faster, as their hips rocked harder. It definitely wasn't Bellamy's first time, but he didn't rush anything and he shook just as badly as Clarke did.

Soon, they became one person, one animal. The bed sheets ended up on the floor as Bellamy and Clarke wrestled for dominance. The entire time, he was growling and groaning deep in his throat while his hands played Clarke like a piano.

Each and every kiss was like a declaration of love – there were no words needed, simply skin on skin. They couldn't get enough of each other, couldn't stop touching one another. They kissed. They lived.

And, just like that, they fell into oblivion and into each other.

**A/N: Hello everyone, hope you're enjoying the story! I read all of your comments and they're all very lovely, so thank you! If you don't already, please follow me on Wattpad (all of my chapters on that website are edited). I am also way more active on there.**

**Profile: KateHWare**

**XOXO**


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